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The Robbery. Page 18. 


THE 


SILVER MEDAL 


BY 

J. T. TROWBRIDGE 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON : 

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. 


-V 






U»«ARY of CONGRESS* 
two Cootes tUXtlrtf 

AUG , j lyoa 

tiiuy 

Junto, 

CLASS /•) AAc. 

^2- i O f f 0 
c#PY a. 


Copyright, 1880, by J. T. Trowbridge. 
Copyright, 1908, by J. T. Trowbridge. 
All Rights Reserved. 


CONTENTS 


THE SILVER MEDAL. p/oe 

I. A Well-laid Scheme, 9 

II. The Four White Sacks, .... 20 

III. The Man under the Window, ... 32 

IV. A Dangerous Secret, 40 

V. Brother and Sister, 44 

VI. Constable Reach, 51 

VII. A Prisoner, 66 

VIII. Before Judge Carson, 67 

IX. John Harrison, 79 

X. More Prisoners, 87 

XI. The Trial, 92 

XII. The Defence and the Verdict, . . . 105 

XIII. Afterwards, 116 

THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 

I. Wadley Toddleby’s Mistake, . , . 123 

II. Mrs. Toddleby just steps out, . . . 129 

III. The Man with the Cup of Tea, . . . 136 

IV. Mrs. Toddleby’s Exploit, .... 141 

V. Master Wadley Toddleby’s Exploit, . . 147 

VI. How Wadley came to see the Falls, . 160 

THE LEATHER SPECTACLES, 155 

A BOY’S ADVENTURE AT NIAGARA FALLS, . . 182 

A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES, 196 

THE LOAD OF WOOD, 208 

THE GOOSE RACE. Phil Aiken’s Story, . . . 222 

THE WIDOW’S GOLD. Peter Wescott’s Story, . 234 

BOYS IN THE CITY. Talks with an Old Merchant, 260 

7 



THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER I. 

A WELL- LAID SCHEME. 

I T’S a big thing, it’s all planned, and we are 
going to let you in ! ” 

That was the first Benton Barry ever heard of 
the affair. He stopped nicking the fence with his 
jack-knife, straightened himself where he sat bent 
over his knees on the top rail, and listened intently 
while Luke Snaffy went on : 

It ain’t every fellow we’d give a hand in this 
game, you understand. There’s three of us already, 
and if you go in, there’ll be four. That’s enough ; 
don’t want no more.” 

“ What is it ? ” Benton asked, with excited curi- 
osity. 

They sat on the fence by Watson’s woods. Luke 
looked cautiously all about, and then, lowering his 
voice, proceeded : 


9 


10 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


none of your little harvest-apple or water- 
melon affairs ! We’re dead broke, every one of us, 
but we’re going to have a high old time.” 

How ? Tell me how ! ” Benton said, impatiently. 
‘‘ That’s what I want to know. If it’s safe, I’m 
with you, of course.” 

“So I told the boys,” Luke replied. “We three 
could swing the thing alone, but I said, ^There’s 
Bent Barry,’ I said ; ‘ a royal good fellow ! It’s too 
bad to keep him out.’ ” 

“ Much obliged to you for your good opinion,” 
said Bent. 

He actually blushed with pleasure, although he 
knew very well what Luke Snaffy’s praise was 
worth. 

“ A royal good fellow ! ” That meant a bad fel- 
low, anything but royal, — one who was as reso- 
lute in wrong-doing as the worst of his companions, 
as desperately fond of what they called a “ high 
old time,” and as reckless of the future. 

Bent was sixteen years old, rather short, but well 
formed, with a bright and pleasant face, and a cer- 
tain air of refinement, which showed that he be- 
longed to a good family. 

The Barrys were, in fact, among the most respect- 
able people in town, and Benton might have had 
all the advantages of home and school which a boy 
could wish ; but he had thrown them away. 

I hardly know what was the trouble with him. 
He was a boy of strong sympathies, and there was 


A WELL-LAID SCHEME. 


11 


nothing he wouldn^t do for a friend when — as his 
sister Martha used to say — “ he took a notion.” 

He could master a lesson in geography or arith- 
metic as quickly as any boy, and he often showed 
great skill and industry in carrying out schemes in 
which he was interested. 

And yet his best friends knew that he was self- 
ish and unobliging, backward in his studies, and 
strangely unwilling to apply himself to any useful 
occupation. Was this all owing to the influence of 
evil companions ? If so, how did it happen that he 
had come under their influence ? 

I am afraid I must say that bashfulness — which 
is generally such an amiable trait — was the cause 
of his choosing, or allowing himself to be chosen 
by, low associates. He found in bad company the 
ease and freedom he could not enjoy in good. 

There is no such refining influence for boys and 
young men as the society of good girls and noble 
women. 

This privilege might have been Bent Barry’s, for 
he had an excellent sister, and she had charming 
friends. But he was too diflSdent to take advan- 
tage of it ; at the same time he was ashamed to 
mjon that he was diffident. So he pretended, and 
finally made himself believe, that he hated the 
girls, and always spoke of them with contempt. 

Falling in with a class of boys who made him 
forget his bashfulness, Benton’s sympathetic dispo- 
sition — another trait of amiability — helped him 
on towards his ruin. 


12 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Our heartstrings vibrate in accord with the tone 
of the society we live in, and a boy like Benton 
could not be in daily intercourse with hard and 
coarse natures, like Luke Snaffy, Seth Cavoort and 
Will Wing, without becoming hard and coarse like 
them. 

There was a time when Bent had a good deal 
of pocket-money, which he always shared with 
these companions ; but when his father found that 
indulgence of this sort only made him unsteady and 
ill-natured, he had cut off the supply, and Bent 
was now interested in any scheme that promised 
further dissipation. 

But when Luke told him just what the new plan 
was, he drew back. 

What ye Traid of?” said Luke. 

^^Oh, I ain’t afraid!” Bent replied. But if we 
should do such a thing, and ever get found out I ” 
But we ain’t going to get found out, I tell you. 
The whole family is away, gone to the mountains. 
They won’t be home for a month. There ain’t a 
soul in the house. Old Jason takes care of the 
place in the daytime, but he goes home to sleep. 
We can get in just as easy any night, and have the 
run of the house, and drink John’s bottled cider for 
a week, if we want to, without being suspected.” 

“ Any other house than the Harrisons’ I ” Bent 
protested. 

“ Well, show me the other where we’ve any such 
chance,” argued Luke. 


A WELL-LAID SCHEME. 


13 


Bentos too easy nature began to give way. 

** But you won’t touch anything but the cider ? ” 
he said, trying to quiet his conscience. 

Of course not, — without it’s a few trifles,” 
Luke replied. We must live, ye know, and it 
ain’t living without ye can have a good time once 
in a while. They’re richj they won’t miss the 
little we take.” 

There was a special reason why Bent did not 
wish to injure the Harrison family. He did not 
mention it, however, but allowed it to be buried 
in his dull and feeble conscience under the argu- 
ments which Luke continued to urge. 

He ended by yielding, of course. Other confer- 
ences followed, at which Seth Cavoort and Will 
Wing were present. Then came the carrying out 
of their well-laid plan. 

More than once in the mean while his scruples 
with regard to doing any wrong to the Harrison 
family had come up in Bent’s mind. They made 
him sick at heart whenever he listened to them, 
and he wished he had never been let into the 
scheme. But having once assented to it, he was 
ashamed to draw back, and on the appointed even- 
ing he prepared to meet his accomplices. 

It was Tuesday, the 10th of August, a date which 
he afterwards had bitter cause to remember. He 
went home early, pulled off his coat and shoes in 
the sitting-room, stretched himself on the sofa, and 
talked a little while with his mother and sister, then 


14 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


at nine o’clock went up-stairs to his room. Mrs. 
Barry drew a deep breath. 

Oh,” she said, if Benton only knew what a 
relief and comfort it is to see him come home early 
and go to bed like other boys, I am sure he would 
do it oftener I ” And the poor woman wiped her 
eyes. 

Martha made no reply, but she thought, ‘‘If 
she can get a moment’s comfort out of his conduct 
towards us all, I’m glad, and I won’t say a word to 
spoil it.” For the strong, sensible girl had little 
patience with her brother’s ways. 

He went to his room whistling carelessly, put out 
his light, and sat by the window waiting. The 
moon was up. The sky was partly filled with bro- 
ken clouds. The garden trees were silvered by the 
soft still light. The night was dewy and cool, and 
singing-crickets foretold the near approach of au- 
tumn. It was a beautiful but lonely scene, and 
somehow it did not make Benton Barry feel happy. 

“ I wish I hadn’t promised,” he muttered at the 
open window. “ Little good shall we get from any- 
thing done in that way. John Harrison’s folks, 
too!” 

The old scruple again ; but he stifled it, and set 
his teeth hard as he watched the moon struggling 
through clouds. Ah, if only his mind, like the 
moon, could have come out of its clouds triumphant 
in its purity and brightness ! 

The church -clock struck ten. That was the 
signal. 


A WELL-LAID SCHEME. 


15 


His father had already gone to bed when Bent 
came home, and he had long since heard his sister 
go to her room. The house was dark and still ; only 
the moon shone in at the windows, and the kitchen 
clock ticked. 

It was not the first time Benton had stolen si- 
lently down stairs when all the rest were asleep, 
pushed the fastenings of the entry door softly back, 
and put on his shoes on the grass outside. But now 
he did the same again with extraordinary caution. 

If anything should happen,^^ he said to himself, 
“ they must be able to swear that I was at home and 
abed.’^ 

The place of meeting was the shelter of an old 
apple-tree standing in a vacant lot on Ash Street, a 
lonely and unfrequented street at night. The rear 
entrance to the Harrison estate was in that street, 
and Bent had to pass it on his way to the rendez- 
vous. 

He paused and looked over the fence into the 
gloomy garden. Just then he heard footsteps. 
Somebody was coming. It might be one of his 
companions. No ; it was a slow and stately step, 
and he saw the figure of a man coming along the 
middle of the road. 

To avoid being seen. Bent thought first of jump- 
ing over into Harrison’s garden. But that wouldn’t 
do ; and to turn and walk back the way he had come 
might excite suspicion. 

The only other thing to do was to walk right on, 


m 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


as if he had as honest a right there as anybody, 
keeping far enough from the middle of the street to 
avoid being recognized. 

But now, just as he thought he was going to get 
safely by, the man turned out of the road, as if on 
purpose to see who was hurrying along by the fence, 
where there was no path or sidewalk, at that hour 
of the night. 

Bent knew him. It was old Dr. Lombard. 

At the same time the boy instinctively threw 
down his head, so that his hat would hide his 
face, — for they met in the full moonlight, — and 
pressed on. 

“ Good evening,^^ said the doctor, peering curi- 
ously at him. 

Good evening,’’ Bent responded in a false tone 
of voice, and was relieved to hear the old man go 
tramping on without more words. 

He was terribly afraid he had been recognized, 
and he related the adventure to his three accom- 
plices, whom he found waiting for him under the 
apple-tree. 

Benton ventured a feeble remonstrance against 
going any further; but he was utterly unable to 
resist the ridicule which it called out. 

The boys did not go back on Ash Street at all, 
but found their way across two intervening gardens 
to the Harrison place. 

There stood the unoccupied house, with closed 
blinds, in the midst of moonlit trees and shadowy 
shrubbery. 


A WELL-LAID SCHEME. 


17 


The boys went completely around it first, keeping 
well in the shadows, to make sure that nobody was 
near; then Seth Cavoort was stationed at one cor- 
ner, and Benton at another, to keep watch, while 
Luke and Will disappeared around the west side. 

Bent sat down under some bushes, and waited. 
He was not a very courageous boy, except in the 
presence of others leading him on, and left to his 
own reflections in that dreary solitude, his heart 
was all in a flutter of apprehension. 

Once or twice he thought he heard somebody 
approaching ; but it was only the wind moving the 
trees. 

Then certainly he heard footsteps ; and he was 
about to give the signal-whistle agreed upon in 
case of danger, when he saw Seth coming towards 
him. 

There^s no use of two keeping watch outside,” 
Cavoort whispered. “ You stay, and I’ll go and 
help the fellows.” 

He disappeared. All was still again. Only the 
crickets kept up the strange dreary see-saw of their 
song. Then Bent heard a faint tinkling sound, as 
of broken glass. 

“ It’s the window,” he said to himself, with a pain- 
ful contraction of the heart. 

He could keep his position no longer. He crept 
around the house until he could see three dark 
forms in the shadow by the library window. 

The blinds were open. Then the window, which 
2 


18 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


they were evidently at work at, seemed also to have 
come open, and one of them put in his head. 

After a mementos pause, the head was drawn back; 
and a terrible thought occurred to Benton. 

What if some of the family have come home, 
and are in the house now ! ” 

Had the burglars heard movements within ? 

No ; for presently another head was put in at the 
window. It was followed by the shoulders, — a 
spring, and the whole body disappeared. 

That was Luke,” Bent thought. “ He said he 
would be the first one in the house, and the last 
out.” 

The two others followed, and the blinds were 
carefully closed again. Bent alone was on the out- 
side. He drew near in a little while, and peeping 
through the blinds, could see a streak of light be- 
side the curtain, which was pulled down. 

They have lighted the gas, as they said they 
would,” thought Benton. 

And he moved off to see if any glimmer could be 
detected at a distance. None. Curtains and blinds 
concealed everything within. 

The village clock struck eleven. Then two or 
three streets away a solitary dog began to bark at 
the moon. Soon other dogs in the distance re- 
sponded. Bent did not like those sounds. When 
evil-doers are astir, they prefer that dogs should be 
asleep. 

“ What are the fellows about all this time ? ” he 


A WELL-LAID SCHEME* 


19 


thought, wishing he had gone in with them, or that 
he had at least insisted on Seth’s remaining outside 
with him. It was terribly long and lonesome keep- 
ing watch out there ! 

At length a noise at a side door, like the clicking 
of a bolt, attracted his attention ; and as it did not 
open, he crept up and tapped lightly. His signal 
was recognized, and the door was cautiously opened 
by Seth. 

What are you doing ? ” Bent demanded in a 
whisper. 

‘^Getting ready to leave,” Seth replied. “We 
shall all go out by the door; only Luke will stay 
in to fasten up, and then get out of the winder.” 

“ Can’t I come in now ? I’m tired of standing 
guard.” 

“ Yes, come in. I don’t believe there’s any use 
in your staying out any longer.” 

Benton went in, and the door was closed after 
him. It was not the first time he had been in that 
house. He had once been carried into it, more dead 
than alive, and there kind hands had brought back 
the breath into his almost lifeless body, the warmth 
into his chilled limbs. 

Did he remember the time ? And did the special 
reason why he did not want to injure that house 
make his heart sink now as it had not. done be- 
fore ? His heart did sink, as well it might. A sight 
met his eyes which filled him with amazement and 
dismay. 


20 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER IL 

THE FOUR WHITE SACKS. 

As the boys had taken nothing with them to carry 
off their booty in, Benton believed that they reall;^ 
meant only to drink some of John’s cider, and help 
themselves, as they said to “ a few trifles.’^ 

But now he found \ow deplorably he had been 
deceived. What astc Jshed and alarmed him, when 
Seth Cavoort let hir into the house, was the sight 
of three white sacks standing by the entry door. 
Each had a knot in one end, and a big bunch of 
some very irregularly shaped materials in the other. 
‘‘ What are those? ’’ Bent asked. 

Them’s piller-cases,” said Cavoort, with a grin. 
“ And the boys are fillin’ another, so there’ll be one 
apiece for us to lug. I tell ye, it’s a rich go ! ” 

“ What’s in them? ” Bent asked. 

All sorts of things, — you’ll see when we over- 
haul ’em. They’re lookin’ for silver now, but 1 
believe all the silver has been carried out of the 
house.” 

You took tfie pillow-cases off the beds?” said 
Bent, still looking ruefully at the tied-up sacks. 

“ Of course ; where should we get ’em ? ” Seth re- 
plied, touching one with his foot and causing a slight 
rattling sound in the contents. Luke was for 
taking a sheet and making one big load ; but Will 


THE FOUR WHITE SACKS. 


21 


and I said the piller-cases would be better. Here 
comes Will with the cider ! ” 

Will was bringing up from the cellar a couple of 
bottles. “We had to break open the wine-closet to 
get ’em/’ he said. “ Luke ’s filling the other pillow- 
case with bottles. We’re going to save lugging by 
drinking these.” 

Luke came up with the fourth white sack, which 
looked very weighty, as he swung it to its place be- 
side the others on the floor. 

“ Narry bit of silver ! ” he said, as he passed his 
sleeve across his sweaty forehead. “ But we’ve got 
a good haul, and we’ve worked hard for it.” 

“ You said only a few trifles ! ” Benton exclaimed. 

“ Well, that’s just what we’ve got,” laughed Luke ; 
“ and now we’re going to have a treat. Guess John 
Harrison will smile when he sees what’s left in his 
wine-closet ! Nobody got a cork-screw ? Never 
mind.” 

He broke off the neck of a bottle on the edge of 
the kitchen sink, and filled glasses brought from a 
closet. 

The boys drank ; Benton drank with the rest. He 
was only too eager to warm his quaking heart with 
cider. “ I’m in the scrape,” thought he, “ and the 
only way is to put it through.” 

After a couple of glasses he forgot all about his 
obligations to the family he was helping to despoil ; 
and caroused recklessly with the rest. 

The first two bottles emptied, Luke took another 


22 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


and held the neck over the edge of the sink, but 
before breaking it, paused. 

“ Look here, boys ! ” he said. “ I guess two will 
do ; we agreed not to take any risks, you know. 
Now we’d better see to getting out of this.” 

He slipped the bottle into the fourth pillow-case, 
and tied it up. 

“ It’s early yet, — only half- past eight o’clock ! ” 
said Benton, laughing, as he pointed at the kitchen 
clock, which had stopped on that hour. 

“ We won’t go home till morning ; we won’t go 
home till morning,” Seth began to sing, and Will 
and Bent joined in. 

“ Hush your noise ! ” said Luke, in an angry whis- 
per. “ I planned this thing well ; it’s worked all 
right so far, and I ain’t going to have it upset by 
your fooling ! ” 

Having quieted his companions, he made them 
help him set the sacks out of the door. Then, 
charging them to keep watch over their booty in the 
shrubbery close by, he bolted the door after them, 
put out the rest of the lights in the house, jumped 
out of the window they had got in at, closed it, shut 
the blinds carefully, and joined them in the bushes. 

After a brief consultation as to the route to be 
pursued, they shouldered each his sack, and started 
across the gardens again, as they had come. 

“ All right, so far ! ” said Luke, as they stopped to 
rest when they were again under the apple-tree in 
the vacant lot. “ Take a good long breath, boys ; 
then we’ve got to cross the street.” 


THE FOUR WHITE SACKS. 


23 


“ That's the worst part/' said Benton, with those 
confounded white things shining in the moonlight J 
I'm glad the dogs have stopped barking." 

Everything was quiet when they started again. 
They crossed the street, put their sacks over the 
fence beyond, and got over after them, stealthily and 
successfully. 

Then four dark figures, each bearing a white sack 
in the moonshine, might have been seen hastening 
along by a low wall between two fields. 

They were seen, in fact ; and presently swift feet 
came rustling the dry grass of the pasture edge 
behind them. 

“ Yow — yow — yow ! " said the shrill yelp of a 
very small cur, as he paused and barked at them at 
a safe distance. 

It's only old Jason’s dog," said Luke, rallying 
his startled companions. ‘‘ Don't be afraid of that 
little mite of a thing I" Old Jason Locke's house 
was on the street twenty rods from the point where 
they had just crossed. They had no doubt but he 
was fast asleep ; and they had made no account of 
the little mite." But the barking of a small dog 
is sometimes, like the hum of a mosquito, more an- 
noying than dangerous. 

So it proved in this instance. Little Tip was 
even more afraid of the boys than they were of him, 
but his vivacious yelping was something terrific. 
And now, aroused by it, another and much larger 
dog came bounding from another direction across 
the field. 


24 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Git ! git I ” muttered Luke. “We shall have all 
the dogs in town after us next ! ” And the boys ran. 

To the sharp treble of the small dog was now 
joined the big dog’s heavy bass, as they followed 
in swift pursuit. 

The woods were not far off. But there was a wall 
to climb ; and as the boys went scrambling over it 
with their sacks, closely pursued by the dogs, an 
ominous sound of shattered ware was mingled with 
that of the tumbling stones. 

Luke, who carried the sack of bottles in his hand, 
caught it up, but too late. There had been a col- 
lision ; and as he shouldered his load, he presently 
felt a stream of cool liquid trickling down his back, 
under his summer clothes. 

Seth and Benton stopped to hurl a couple of 
stones, which drove the dogs back, and then fol- 
lowed Luke and Will into the woods. 

The animals jumped up on the wall, which they 
did not pass, and for the next hour kept up — with 
other dogs that joined them — a chorus of barking 
which the fugitives could hear half a mile away. 

“ This makes me sweat I ” said Seth, as they slack- 
ened their pace in a small, open, moonlit glen. 

“ What do you think of me ? ” said Luke. “ My 
bag is the heaviest, though it ain’t so heavy as it was 
before I got over that wall ! ” 

“ I thought I heard bottles break,” said Benton. 

“ You may say bottles ! ” said Luke, with grim 
humor. “ Instead of emptying ’em down our throats, 


THE FOUR WHITE SACKS. 


25 


] spilled ^em down my back ; and Pve been sweat- 
ing cider for the last quarter-’n-hour/^ 

They had struck a rough wagon-track in the 
woods, and this soon led them to a bridge crossing 
a gully, in the midst of dark bushes on both sides. 
That was the spot which had been chosen for hiding 
their booty. 

Luke led the way through the bushes, down into 
the little ravine, and the four white sacks disap- 
peared from the glimpses of the moon beneath the 
low, level bridge. 

“ Now, so far, so. good,^^ whispered Luke, as they 
stowed their packs under the edge of the timbers, 
and covered them with bark and boughs. “ The 
dogs was an accident that couldn’t be helped ; but 
they didn’t hurt nothing but a bottle or two. Now, 
if everything is quiet, we’ll go a-hunting, and meet 
here to-morrow, take a drink, see what we’ve got, 
and what we’ll do next.” 

The boys then returned, by a different route, to 
the village, where they separated. Benton went 
home, entering the house with his shoes in his hand, 
and creeping up stairs, like the thief he was. 

Here I am I and I haven’t been out of my room 
since nine o’clock,” he chuckled to himself, as he at 
length tumbled into bed, satisfied that his escape 
from the house had not been discovered by the 
family. 

The chuckle did not come from his heart. He 
wasn’t happy as he lay thinking over the events of 


26 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


the night. The meeting with near-sighted old Dr. 
Lombard ; the solitary watch outside the Harrison 
house ; the sound of tinkling glass ; the sight of the 
white pillow-cases in the entry, tied up with the 
plunder ; the drinking of the cider ; the retreat 
across the fields; the pursuit of the dogs, — every- 
thing whirled in his brain, till he sank wearily to 
sleep. 

Then wild dreams pursued him. Once, as he was 
climbing a wall with his white sack in the moon- 
light, a great dog seized his leg and held him, till he 
woke with a start of terror. 

He slept at last, in spite of bad dreams, and woke 
late the next morning to memories almost as dis- 
jointed and disagreeable as the dreams he took them 
for at first. 

I thought you went to bed early last night I ” his 
sister Martha exclaimed, looking at him sharply, as 
he came down-stairs after the family breakfast. 

So I did,” said Bent, carelessly ; but I didn’t 
hear any bell this morning.” 

I was so glad you could sleep ! ” said his mother, 
indulgently, taking his toast out of the oven and 
pouring his coffee. 

“ If she only knew the reason why I slept so 
well ! ” thought Benton, as he sat silent and morose 
at the table. 

He was the last at the rendezvous in the woods 
that forenoon. As he crept in through the bushes, 
with his gun and game-bag, he found Luke and Will 


THE FOUR WHITE SACKS. 


27 


and Seth waiting for him. They had untied the 
pillow-cases and were examining their contents. 

“ By George ! ” Luke was saying, in whispers, 
“ ain’t it too bad that vase is broke ? That was in 
your bag, Will I ” 

It must have got hit when we lunged over the 
wall, and you cracked the bottles,” said Will. But 
that statuette is all right. No — !” 

The exclamation died in his throat, 

“ Who would have thought the confounded thing 
would break so easy ? ” said Will, in huge disgust ; 
“ for I’m sure I hardly touched the wall.” 

“We might have sold that for ten dollars, let alone 
the vase,” said Luke. “ But, one thing about it, 
’twould have been rather hard to carry off. Now, 
these little picture-frames we can pack right into 
our game-bags, and walk through the town with ’em, 
if we choose.” 

“ You said you didn’t find any silver. But what’s 
this ? ” said Seth. 

“ Oh, that card-receiver,” Luke replied. “ I didn’t 
count that ; I was speaking of forks and spoons.” 

“ What did you bring away daguerreotypes for ? ” 
Bent demanded. 

“ Daguerreotypes ? We didn’t I ” said Luke. 
“We couldn’t stop to take the photographs out of 
the frames ; but we didn’t see any daguerreotypes.” 

“ What’s this, then ? ” and Bent fished out of the 
pillow-case he had himself carried away a small, 
neat morocco case, which he opened. 


28 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Something fell out. It was not a daguerreotype. 
Luke gave a vicious laugh. “ More silver, Seth 1 
We thought Bent would be particularly interested 
in that.^' 

It was a silver medal. On one side was an em- 
bossed shield, with a pair of clasped hands in the 
centre — the symbol of human brotherhood. Below 
the hands, occupying the lower division of the shield, 
was the device of a ship tossing on a stormy sea ; 
while in the division above were two life-boats put- 
ting off on the waves. 

Over the shield was a scroll, and above the scroll 
was the figure of a small house. On the scroll under 
the house was the word Refuge. Within the rim of 
the medal was the inscription : Humane Society of 
Massachusetts. At the bottom was the date, 1791. 

But it was the reverse side that interested and 
astonished Bent. This is what he saw and read : 

Reward of Merit. 

To 

John Harrison^ 
for humane exertions 
in rescuing from drowning 
Benton Barry, 

March 1st, 

1870. 

Courage and Perseverance. 

What^s the matter. Bent ? ” said Seth, snatching 
%he medal. Hello ! I’d forgot all about John 
Harrison pulling you out of the water that winter ! ” 


THE FOUR WHITE SACKS. 


29 


Why, don^t you remember?” said Luke. We 
was skating, late in the season ; the pond was ready 
to break up, but there’d come a rain, and then a 
freeze, and glazed the ice over, and we was foola 
enough to go on to it.” 

Seth wasn’t there, but I was,” spoke up Will. 
“And I remember how Bent cut through, and the 
ice cracked so all around him we couldn’t get at 
him, and he couldn’t get out ; and how he did yell ! ” 
“ Yes,” said Bent, reaching out and getting hold 
of the medal again as it was passing from hand to 
hand in the dim light under the bridge. “ And I 
guess you'd have yelled if you had felt the cold 
strike to your bones, as I did, and seen the fellows 
stand round, not daring to help, but only telling you 
what to do, when you couldn’t do anything but slip 
back from the ice and drown, — drown,” he went on, 
passionately, “ as I might for all you, when John 
Harrison came and got me out and carried me home. 
Risked his own life to save mine, — and what a 
worthless life I’ve made of it, after all ! ” And Bent 
bowed himself over the medal, with tears of anger 
and shame in his eyes. 

“ I never knew he got the Humane Society’s 
medal,” said Will. “ But he deserved it. I wouldn’t 
have took the risk he did ! ” 

“ No, I don’t think you would ! ” Bent retorted, 
with savage sarcasm. “ Not one of us would have 
done such a thing for another ; and why should he 
do it ? for a fellow like me I ” 


30 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


^^Perty good joke/^ Luke laughed, in his low, 
vicious way, “ that Bent should have paid him by 
hooking the medal I 

I ? ’’ Bent cried out, shaking his fist close to 
Luke’s chin. “ Say that again, and I’ll — ” 

Hush your noise ! ” said Luke. “ Anybody going 
by could hear you, within a mile.” 

I don’t care if anybody does ! ” 

Benton lowered his voice, however, and withdrew 
the shaking fist. Once more he leaned over the 
medal, scowling blackly. 

“We can hammer it out so that John Harrison 
himself wouldn’t know it again, if he should see it, 
and sell it for old silver,” said Luke. “ There’s five 
or six dollars in it ; shouldn’t you say so ? ” 

“ I d’n’ know ; lemme heft it,” said Seth. 

“ No, sir I ” Bent exclaimed, resolutely, shutting 
the medal in its case. “ You don’t heft it, and you 
don’t hammer it out, not if I know anything ! ” 

“ Look here ; no nonsense. Bent ! ” said Luke. 
“ That’s a part of the spoils, and they’ve got to be 
divided equally, you know.” 

I’ll keep this for my share. You may have all 
the rest. Good-bye.” And Bent pocketed the medal 
and seized his gun. 

“ You can’t blame him for wanting to save that 
out of the plunder,” said Will. “ But don’t go, 
Bent ; don’t go. Stop and have some cider.” 

The others entreated and threatened, but to no 
purpose. Bent was thoroughly aroused, and they 
were afraid to lay hands on him. 


THE POUR WHITE SACKS. 


31 


Never mind/^ said Luke, if he^s contented with 
his share. He won't dare to blow on us. Hanged 
if I thought he^d feel so about that medal ! I 
thought heM look at it as a joke. It was by the 
merest chance I picked it out of a drawer, and saw 
what it was.’’ 

Meanwhile Bent Barry was tramping back through 
the woods, with the medal in his pocket, and re- 
morse and rage in his heart. 


32 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MAN UNDER THE WINDOW. 

Bent did not go immediately home. For an hour 
or two he wandered about in great distress of mind, 
furious at himself for the part he had played in the 
robbery, and wondering what he should do with the 
medal. More than once he took it out and looked at 
it as he sat on a rock or a log in the solitary woods. 

For humane exertions in rescuing from 
drowning Benton Barry 

With what feelings of disgust he read his own 
name there ! How strange it all seemed — that 
John Harrison should ever have saved his life ; that 
he should have helped to steal the medal awarded for 
that heroic deed, and that he should now have it in 
possession ! 

He could not think of any act of meanness or in- 
gratitude worse than that. If he had not meant to 
steal the medal, he had been willing to despoil his 
benefactor of other things. 

The idea of their hammering it out, and selling 
it for old silver ! he exclaimed, indignantly. “ What 
sort of fellows are they? And to think it is for them 
that I’ve given up everything else, and made such a 
fool of myself! ” 

Bent was not altogether without heart or con- 


THE MAN UNDER THE WINDOW. 


33 


science, as some folks had good reason to think. 
And now his nature was stirred to its very depths. 

At last he made up his mind what he would do 
with the medal. John Harrison must have it again; 
and after questioning anxiously in his mind how to 
get it to him, and considering all the dangers and 
difficulties in the case. Bent said : 

“ ril go and drop it through the broken window, 
where some of the family will find it when they get 
home.’^ 

That was decided upon. Then what? 

After that,” he reflected, “ the best thing I can 
do is to go and put myself at the bottom of the pond 
again, where John Harrison won’t find me. I wish 
he had never found me. Then this thing couldn’t 
have happened. I was a better boy then than I’ve 
ever been since.” 

Yes, he would either drown himself or run away ; 
for, in his present low state of spirits, he felt sure 
that his share in the robbery would be found out. 
Even if it should not be, he knew he must live in 
constant fear lest it might ; and in his intense dis- 
gust "with his associates and himself, what comfort 
could life be to him where he was ? 

But boys do not drown themselves, often as they 
wish themselves out of the world. And the running 
away remained a vague intent in Bent’s mind. He 
felt better after he had resolved what to do with the 
medal, and went home to a late dinner. 

He walked by both the front and rear of the Har- 

3 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


S4 


rison place that afternoon, and saw the blinds of the 
house closed, and old Jason at work in the garden as 
if nothing had happened. 

He don’t suspect anything yet,” Bent said to 
himself, and the folks haven’t got home. I’d give 
the world if it was back in the house there, where 
Luke found it — if everything was back there ! ” 

It was misery to think that the great wrong which 
had been done could not be undone. He tried to 
forget that, and think only of the one act of repara- 
tion now in his power. 

But no rest to his mind was possible as long as 
the medal remained in his pocket. He was afraid to 
approach the house by day, and he longed for the 
night to come. 

Almost before the fading twilight was lost in the 
splendor of the lately-risen moon. Bent slipped 
around the corner into Ash Street, and once more 
approached the Harrison place. 

He met no one ; the way seemed clear ; and he 
climbed noiselessly over the fence into the garden. 
Then he paused again. 

No living thing stirred, either in the dim grounds 
before him, or in the street behind him. He found 
a shady path between rows of pear-trees, and glided 
towards the house. 

There was a barn to pass, and he crept very cau- 
tiously around that. Then there was the house, 
casting its huge shadow over the trees and shrub- 
bery and bits of grass plot on the side where the 
library-window was. 


THE MAN UNDER THE WINDOW. 


35 


Bent stopped by a trellis to watch a minute. 
There was the window, dimly visible in the gloom. 
Twenty paces, and he could reach it, open a blind, 
and fling the medal through the break in the pane 
made by his companions the night before. 

He stepped stealthily forward, and crossed a little 
belt of moonlight between the end of the trellis and 
the shadow of the house. His hand was on the mo- 
rocco case, — so small, and yet such a dreadful bur- 
den to his soul ! 

He passed a syringa-bush, and stopped again be- 
fore stepping up on the grassy embankment of the 
house under the library- window. He had afterwards 
no idea how long he had stood there, when he be- 
came conscious of a frightful thing. 

Beside the syringa-bush, and partly behind it, on 
the very bank he was going to put his foot on next, 
sat a human figure. 

It was a dark figure, and it looked so much like 
the shadow it sat in that Bent stood almost facing it, 
not more than two or three yards off, for he knew 
not how many seconds, before he was aware that it 
was a man. 

It seemed a wonder that he should have seen it at 
all. A moment more, and he might have stepped up 
and put his hand through the broken pane in the 
presence of that mysterious figure. 

His fingers relaxed their hold on the medal. A 
chill crept through his flesh, and stirred the roots of 
his hair. He stood, fascinated with fear, looking at 
the man, the man looking at him. 


36 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Then Benton turned to run. 

At the same moment, the man got up and ran 
after him. He limped, he wheezed, and the swift- 
heeled fugitive quickly left him behind. 

Then the man called out, Here, come back ! I 
know ye, ye young scamp ! Come back, if ye know 
what’s good for yourself! ” 

Then Bent knew, what he had suspected before, 
that the man was old Jason. 

But did old Jason know Bent? At any rate, he 
had not called his name. So the boy, relying on the 
chance that he had not been recognized, ran all the 
faster, if that was possible, threw himself over the 
fence into the adjoining garden, and got away. 

It took him a long while to get over his fright, 
and then he was filled with vexation and despair. 
How easily he had been led into doing wrong 1 And 
now what unexpected diflSculty had arisen when he 
would have repaired that wrong ! 

That is often the way. Sin is like a mouse-trap ; 
it is easy to get in, but hard to get out. 

He took a roundabout course through the village, 
and found Luke talking with Seth at the widow Ca- 
voort’s gate. 

Hallo ! what’s up ? ” said Luke, seeing how agi- 
tated and out of breath he was. 

“ It’s found out,” Bent whispered, getting into 
the shadow of the post. 

What’s found out?” demanded Seth. 

“ That the house has been broken into.” 


THE MAN UNDER THE WINDOW. 


37 


Luke grinned, in bis vicious way, in the moon- 
light, and asked, with affected coolness, how Bent 
knew that. 

I was there just now, and found old Jason on 
the watch by the library-window,’’ Bent explained. 

He was sitting on the bank by the bush, and I was 
almost in his arms before I saw him, and he did give 
me an awful scare I ” 

“Yes, I see,” said Luke. But 7 should like to 
know what you was there for.” 

I’d just as lief tell ye,” Bent replied. I went 
to take the medal back.” 

What did ye go to take the medal back for ? ” 
said Luke, with a cold sneer. 

Do you think I could keep that, Luke Snaffy ? ” 
Bent retorted. If you do, you are an awful sight 
meaner fellow than I took you for, and you believe 
me to be more like you than I’ve got to be yet.” 

“ Wal, ye needn’t git mad about it,” said Luke. 
“ The plunder was yours to do what you pleased 
with, and if you wanted to carry it back, of course 
I’ve no objection.” 

And I’ll tell you the conclusion I’ve come to,” 
Bent whispered. ^^All the plunder ought to go back. 
I’ll help about it. We’ll pack it up in the pillow- 
cases again, and leave ’em where they’ll be found 
by old Jason in the morning. That’s the only way 
out of the scrape I can see.” 

Luke looked at him in silent disgust for a moment, 
then said : 


38 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


You talk like a fool, Bent Barry. I was nevei 
so disappointed in a feller in my life. I thought you 
had more sense — say nothing ’bout more pluck; 
didn’t you, Seth ? ” 

Don’t quarrel, boys,” said Seth. That’s the 
foolishest thing we can do now. Bent got upset by 
the medal ; that’s what makes him so kind o’ 
shaky.” 

He talks about a way out of the scrape,” Luke 
went on. I don’t see that we’re in any scrape. 
Of course we knew it would be found out some time 
that the house had had visitors. We was prepared 
for that. Now, what else is there ? If old Jason 
knew ye to-night, that may be a clue to you, but ye 
mustn’t let it be a clue to us, now I warn ye. Bent 
Barry ! ” 

I don’t think he did know me, it was so dark right 
there in the shadow,” said Bent. But you needn’t 
trouble yourself to warn me in that threatening way. 
I’m not going to blow.” 

Wal, ye better not ! ” said Luke, with a malicious 
laugh. 

‘‘ But I was serious in what I said about the 
plunder,” Bent insisted. It was an awful thing to 
do, boys I I didn’t realize it. And now I shan’t 
feel right about it, and I don’t believe you ever will, 
till it is carried back.” 

May be so ; I don’t know,” said Seth. “ But 
you’re too late.” 

What do you mean ? ” 


THE MAN UNDER THE WINDOW. 


39 


Why/^ said Luke, you didn’t think we was 
going to keep all that truck on liand till there was a 
hue and cry about it, and it would be dangerous to 
tote it out ? 

“ What have you done with it ? Bent demanded. 

“ Some of it we haven’t done anything with, and 
I guess there ain’t no need of your knowing about 
the rest ; is there, Seth ? ” 

The less said about it now the better, I think, 
Seth replied. 

This was all the satisfaction Bent could get out of 
his friends, and after talking with them a little while 
longer, he went disconsolately homeward. 


40 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A DANGEROUS SECRET. 

His plan of returning the medal having been 
defeated, Bent was in greater trouble of mind in 
regard to it than before. In his desperation, he 
was tempted to fling it away in the street; any- 
thing to get it out of his hands. But he knew very 
well that he could not put it off his conscience in 
that way. 

Then he thought he would hide it in a wall, where 
he could find it again, and get it to John Harrison, 
somehow, after the excitement about the robbery 
had gone by. 

But before he was able to make up his mind to 
any course, he found himself at his own door. 

111 take the night to think of it,’’ he said ; and 
went in, still carrying the dreadful burden in his 
pocket. He hid it in the corner of his trunk, and 
went to bed. 

Now there had once been a key to Bent’s trunk. 
But he was one of those boys who can never take 
care of anything ; and he had not taken care of the 
key. So that now, when he particularly wanted it, 
of course it wasn’t to be found. And he didn’t dare 
to inquire for it the next morning. 

They’ll want to know why I’m so anxious to lock 
my trunk just at this time,” he said to himself, and 


A DANGEROUS SECRET. 


41 


concluded it would be best to say nothing about it 
to any one. 

“ Benton,” said his father, who was a travelling 
agent, and was about starting off on a long journey 
immediately after breakfast, I want you to go to 
the depot with me and carry my carpet-bag.” 

Bent did not want to go to the depot, nor, indeed, 
to any other public place, until he had at least put 
out of the way that special evidence of his guilt in 
the little morocco case. But he could not openly 
disobey his father, and he said, Yes, sir,” with a 
show of readiness which he did not feel. 

He was sure that old Jason must know of the rob- 
bery by this time ; and expected little less than that 
the news of it would be all over the village that 
morning. What he feared still more was that he 
had himself fallen under suspicion. 

Never mind,” he said to himself, with all the 
resolution he could muster. ^^Tve got to face it. 
The worst thing I can do is to flinch, or appear 
afraid of anything.” 

So he went with his father, — a quiet, subdued 
sort of man, who had long since lost faith in his 
only son, and with it a large part of the hope and 
courage of life. 

Benton,” he said, with a tremor in his voice, as 
they approached the station, “ I expect to be gone 
two or three weeks, and I would give you a word 
of advice now before we part if I thought it would 
do any good.” 


42 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


He paused. Bent made no reply. He knew that 
his father had but too good reason to feel that any 
such word would be as useless now as it had been 
in the past. 

“ As it is” Mr. Barry resumed, after a painful 
pause, shall only say this: When I get back, 
your summer vacation will be over. Then you 
must decide on one of two things : Either you must 
enter school again in a very different spirit, and 
with very different motives, from what you have 
shown hitherto, or I shall put you to a trade. Ho 
you understand ? ” 

Yes, sir,’^ said Benton, humbly. 

“ You know,” his father went on, that if I should 
see you make the most of your opportunities, there’s 
nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Do you know it ? ” 
Yes, sir,” again the boy faltered, devoutly wish- 
ing that he could leave the past and all its evils 
behind him, and begin a new and true life from that 
hour. 

“ So I have said, and so you have said before,” 
Mr. Barry continued. I don’t know why I repeat 
it. You care nothing for what I say, and I have 
little faith in your promises. You donH know, 
Benton ! you don’t know how much my future has 
been bound up in you, and with what grief I have 
seen you scorn your advantages, and choose those 
things which can only lead to misery and disgrace.” 

The boy wanted to vow, then and there, that he 
would do differently; that he would deserve his 


A DANGEROUS SECRET. 


43 


father's love and trust. But either his old diffi- 
dence, or a want of confidence in himself, kept his 
wretched mouth closed. 

They parted in silence, having now reached the 
station. And Bent, relieved at seeing among the 
people there no sign of excitement regarding the 
robbery, hurried home. 

He had thought the trunk, even without a key, a 
safer place for the medal during his brief absence 
than his own pocket. But he now said resolutely 
to himself as he ran up-stairs, “ I’ll take it into the 
woods and hide it in a hollow tree before I ever 
come back." 

He heard a rustling sound as he approached his 
room, started forward with alarm, and was just in 
time to see his sister Martha leaning over his open 
trunk with the morocco case in her hand. She was 
just going to unclasp it. 

<^Why, Bent," she said, on seeing him enter, 
what girl’s picture have you got here ? " 

“ Give it to me ! " he said, springing forward. 

^^What are you afraid of?" she answered, with 
troubled surprise, seeing him white with excite- 
ment. I won't look at it if you don't want 

me to." 

But the case was already partly opened, and as he 
snatched at it, the medal rolled out upon the floor. 


44 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER V. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 

Why, what is it ? said Martha. 

None of your business ! ” Bent muttered, pur- 
suing the medal as it rolled under the bed. 

He did not find it for a good reason. While he 
was looking for it, on his elbows, with his head under 
the bed, the little fugitive piece of silver, having 
made a circuit and rolled out again, laid itself down 
gently and softly by Martha’s side. 

So great was her curiosity, she could not resist 
an impulse to pick it up. But as she was stooping 
for it. Bent fioundered out from under the bed’s 
edge, saw her hand go down, and with a stroke of 
his own intercepted it. 

He had the medal. But she had his secret. 

<< Why, Bent ! Bent Barry ! ” she exclaimed, in 
utter amazement. Where did you get that ? ” 

Get what ? ” he growled. 

What indeed ! ” she answered, regarding him 
with eyes full of suspicion and censure. 

What were you rummaging in my trunk for, any 
way?” he demanded, pocketing the medal and 
reaching for the empty case. “ Give me that ! ” 

He spoke so fiercely that she gave it to him with- 
out a word. She still looked at him with her sor- 
rowful, searching eyes, and said : 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


45 


You never came honestly by it, Pm sure of that ; 
you are so eager to hide it.’’ 

‘‘ You needn’t say anything about coming honestly 
by things, after I’ve caught you at my trunk I ” he 
retorted, starting to go out. 

Ask mother what I was at your trunk for,” Mar- 
tha replied, with spirit. She sent me to get your 
underclothes, and mend them up for you, before you 
want to put them on in the fall. That was honest 
enough, wasn’t it?” 

“ Well, but you needn’t be prying into my private 
affairs,” said Bent, turning back after he had got to 
the door. 

I wish you had no private affairs that won’t bear 
prying into,” was the girl’s prompt reply. “ It 
would be better for you, and for all of us. But I 
had no intention of prying. I saw what looked to 
be a picture-case of some kind, and had just taken 
it up when you came in.” 

Well, you found out it wasn’t,” Bent murmured, 
recovering from his first shock of terrified surprise, 
and feeling that he must make peace with his sister. 

He was sick at heart with anxiety to know just 
how much she had discovered, and to come to an 
understanding with her. 

If I can believe my eyes,” she said, “ it was no 
picture at all, but that silver medal — John Harri- 
son’s silver medal.” 

He affected to laugh at the idea. 

^'Well, I am not so sure it is his; but,” she in* 


46 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


sisted, “ it is just such a medal and just such a case, 
i have seen it a dozen times ; and I have had good 
reason to be interested in it, with your name on it, 
too, Benton Barry 1 

Well, and mayn’t there be another like it some- 
where ? ” 

“ Yes, I’ve no doubt there are a good many like 
it, awarded to people for risking their lives to save 
those worse than themselves from drowning. But 
I don’t believe there’s another in this town.” 

Well,” said Bent, sitting on the bed, this is 
John Harrison’s medal. What of it? Couldn’t he 
have let me take it ? ” 

Shall I ask him if he did ? ” queried Martha, with 
a piercing look. 

No, you needn’t take that trouble. I’ll tell you 
all about it, — that is, all I can tell, — if you’ll prom- 
ise never to speak of it.” 

I’ll promise nothing of the kind,” replied the 
frank and honest girl. “ But if you’ve been up to 
any mischief, as I see very plainly you have, you’d 
better tell me, or tell some friend, who will give you 
good advice.” 

Bent hesitated. She went on : 

I know more about your ways than you think 
Something has been wrong with you for a day or 
two. You were not abed and asleep night before 
last, as you wanted us to think.” 

How do you know ? ” said Bent, guiltily. 

5 know I I saw it in your face in the morning, 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


47 


for one thing. Then you were mightily troubled all 
day.” 

Yes, I was,” Bent confessed. And I want to 
tell you what it was. But I can^t unless you 
promise.” 

“ If you tell me anything, I promise to do what 
I believe is for your own and everybody’s best 
interest,” said Martha, plainly and firmly. “ That’s 
the only pledge I can make.” 

Bent sat scowling gloomily for a minute, then 
said : 

I’ll tell you now all I can tell. I saw a fellow 
have this medal, and I took it, to carry it back to 
John Harrison. That’s the solemn truth. He shall 
have it again, I pledge you my life. And it will 
be all right, unless you blow on me ; then I don’t 
know what may happen.” 

I know very well what has happened already,” 
said Martha. “ Some boys have been in Mr. Harri- 
son’s house. You needn’t deny it. And I believe 
you are one of them. Bent Barry 1 Who earned off 
the medal ? ” 

I can’t tell.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

Well,” said Bent, remorsefully, “ he is a friend of 
mine — or was, I’m ashamed to say.” 

I should think you would be ashamed to have 
such friends ! ” his sister exclaimed. Are you my 
brother Benton, that used to be so innocent, and 
that everybody loved so ? Oh, where has that 


48 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


brother gone ? For you are not he ; but some bad 
spirit has driven him out and taken his place.” 

Martha began to cry. Bent sat remorseful and 
morose, while she stifled her sobs and wiped her 
eyes, and resumed : 

^‘1 used to think there was no brother like my 
brother. We all were so proud of you. We had 
such hopes of you. Now look at mother — she is 
actually afraid of you. She don’t dare cross you in 
the slightest thing; she so dreads your frowns and 
your growls. And father — he has grieved over you 
till he has grown old before his time. What do you 
think of yourself. Bent Barry ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” murmured the miserable youth. 

It’s time you did know. Where’s your self- 
respect ? You haven’t any. You go with a set of 
low rowdies, and are as bad as they. And now one 
of them has stolen the very medal John Harrison got 
for saving your life ; and you can’t give his name, 
because he is your friend ! ” 

‘‘ And because I might get myself into a scrape, 
too ; you may as well know the truth,” said Benton. 

I thought it was so I ” she exclaimed. “ What 
will mother say ? ” 

You needn’t run right off and tell her,” replied 
Bent. That will do no good.” 

No good at all, only to break her heart again, as 
you have broken it so many times before,” said Mar 
tha. “ But there’s one thing I must do at once.” 

What’s that ?” 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


4:b 

“ Write to Amelia Harrison. Her folks ought to 
know that the boys have got into their house.^* 

Then you’ll have to tell how you knew it, and 
that will bring me in,’’ said the wretched culprit. 
*‘Well, do it — if you want to see a brother of 
yours — ” 

It was now Bent’s turn to cry. Thereupon her 
sisterly heart began to relent. 

I don’t want to bring you into any difficulty, 
Benton. But that is what is certainly coming, if 
you keep on doing as you have done lately; and 
perhaps the sooner it comes about, the better for us 
all.” 

Maybe,” said Bent. “ But I promise you, if I 
get well out of this scrape, I won’t get into another, 
and I’ll have nothing more to do with those fellows.” 

Martha did not put much faith in his promises ; he 
had made and broken too many. But he was her 
brother, and she longed to help him. 

What else did the boys take ? ” she asked. 

I don’t know. I only saw the medal,” said Bent, 
lying stoutly. 

“ And you did not take that, nor anything ? ” 

“ I didn’t take that, nor anything.” 

She did not know whether to believe him or not. 

And what are you going to do with it now ? ” 

“ I was going to hide it in the woods till I had 
a good chance to send or carry it back.” 

Don’t do any such thing,” said Martha. Take 
it to Jason Locke, and tell him how you came by it. 

4 


50 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


If you will only do that, I know very well that the 
Harrisons will never give you any trouble about 
it. Perhaps you will not even have to mention any 
names, though I advise you to own up to every- 
thing.’' 

Bent was struck by the good sense of this sug- 
gestion; and after some hesitation, said that if he 
was sure no names would be insisted on, he would 
take the medal to old Jason. 

Then he confessed how he had already tried to 
put it into the house. 

In that case," said Martha, ‘‘ the sooner you act, 
the better. You haven’t a minute to lose. Don’t 
wait till it is found in your hands. And don’t — if 
you want me to befriend you — don’t go and hide it 
in the woods.’’ 

I won’t/’ replied Bent. I’ll go straight and 
give it to the old man.’’ 

He left her with that promise. But as he went 
from the house, he said to himself.* 

“ I can make up a story. I can say I picked it up 
somewhere. Why didn’t I think of that before ?’’ 

He had his little fiction all arranged by the time 
he reached the Harrison place. But he had not got 
his courage quite up to the point of telling a good 
stout lie without flinching. 

So, when he saw two men talking with old Jason 
in Mr. Harrison’s yard, he could not make up his mind 
to go in, but walked past the gate. 

That was a fatal error. 


CONSTABLE REACH. 


51 


CHAPTER VI. 

CONSTABLE REACH. 

One of the men walked quietly out of the gate, and 
followed him. It was Giles Reach. 

When Bent looked back over his shoulder and saw 
Giles coming after him at a good pace, a dreadful 
idea occurred to him. 

Reach was janitor of the town-hall ; he was also a 
policeman. 

Was he in pursuit of Benton ? 

Bent did not know. His guilt made him afraid. 
But he durst not start and run ; indeed, he knew 
that to run would be worse than useless. For had 
not Seth on one occasion tried his legs with Reach, 
and been beaten? And Bent was no match for 
Seth. 

So Bent walked slowly, and let the officer come up 
with him. 

“ Good morning, Benton,’^ said Reach, cheerfully. 

Good morning,” Bent replied, with his heart in 
his throat. 

You don’t seem to be in much of a hurry,” said 
Reach. 

“ Not much,” said Bent. 

“ No very pressing business on hand this morn- 
ing? ” 

“ Nothing very pressing.” 


62 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


“ I’m glad of that, for, I’m sorry to say,” — Reach 
laid his broad hand, in a kindly sort of way, on the 
boy’s shoulder, — “ yoif re wanted.” 

Bent gave a start and a gasp. 

“ Yes, my boy. I have Judge Carson’s warrant 
for your arrest.” 

Bent felt sick. His knees shook under him. Yet 
he managed to say, with a sort of forced calmness, 
though he was ashy about the lips, and the smile he 
put on was ghastly : 

“ Must be some mistake 1 What am 7 — ” 

What are you wanted for? Well,” said the po- 
liceman, it is not my place to explain that ; but I 
may as well tell you that a house in town has been 
broken into, and it’s thought you may possibly know 
something about it.” 

“ I don’t know anything about any house being 
broken into,” said Bent. 

‘‘ All the better for you,” said Reach. “ I trust 
it’ll turn out so.” 

“ What are you going to do with me ? ” Bent 
asked. 

Take you before Judge Carson so soon as he is 
ready for the case. Meanwhile I suppose I shall 
have to lock you up. Do you want to go home 
first ? ” 

No,” said Bent. “ If I have got to go to the 
lock-up, I may as well go straight along.” 

But immediately he changed his mind. There 
was the medal in his pocket. It was too late to give 


CONSTABLE KEACH. 


53 


it up now, and declare that he had found it. And if 
discovered on his person, it would be fatal evidence 
against him. 

How bitterly he regretted not having followed 
Martha’s advice ! No doubt if he had walked up to 
old Jason, he could have handed him the medal be- 
fore the warrant of arrest was served. 

Was there no way he could get rid of it ? 

I would like to go home first,” he said, “ and tell 
my folks that I am taken up, but that it’s for some- 
thing I know nothing about.” 

Very well. I’ll accommodate you,” said Keach. 

Now, when Martha, five minutes later, looked from 
the chamber- window and saw her brother coming to 
the gate with a man close to his side, she guessed 
only too quickly what was the trouble. 

Yes, the man was Keach, the policeman; and he 
was walking with his left hand under Bent’s arm I 

She thought first of her mother, — what a blow it 
would be to her I To prevent it, or at least to post- 
pone and soften it, she hastened down stairs. 

But too late. She heard her mother’s stifled 
shriek. The poor woman was already at the door. 

“ Oh, Benton ! what is it ? ” she was saying, with 
a mother’s fear and anguish in her voice and face. 

“ Nothing I’m to blame for. Mr. Keach can tell 
you more than I can,” said the youth, with the bra- 
vest air he could put on. You needn’t think 1 11 run 
away from you,” — he drew his arm away from the 
officer, — “ for I won’t.” 


54 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


I don’t think you will,” said Keach ; “ but boys 
are sometimes foolish enough to try.” 

He, however, released his hold of his prisoner, and 
stood talking, in a kind, neighborly way, with Mrs. 
Barry, telling her he hoped her son would come out 
of it all right, while Bent whispered to Martha : 

Watch your chance when he isn’t looking. It’s in 
my pocket — the one towards you. Put your hand 
down to take it when I give it to you, and don’t let 
him see.” 

Poor Martha was too guileless a girl ever to do 
anything secret or stealthy. And now she was in a 
state of terrible agitation. But she felt she must 
help her brother by doing what he wished. 

A moment more, and the medal would have been 
safely transferred from his pocket to her own. 

But, unluckily, Bent made a slight movement of 
the body. Keach, who was watching him over his 
shoulder, turned instantly, and saw the girl’s hand, 
just as it was withdrawn, holding the morocco case. 

The officer’s hand was immediately on her wrist. 
What’s that ? ” he said. 

Martha was not accustomed to deceive. But she 
had a quick wit, and now her sole object was to save 
her brother. 

She remembered what she had herself first taken 
the case for, and answered promptly : 

“ You don’t care for a girl’s picture, do you ? ” 

No, of course not. But under the circumstances 
anything he has on his person I suppose I must take 
in charge.” 


CONSTABLE KEACH. 


55 


The officer was perfectly polite, but he held her 
hand firmly. 

“ Oh, Mr. Keach ! to please me,” she pleaded. 

I’ll promise not to look at the picture, if that will 
please you,” he replied. “ But I shall have to take 
it.” 

Then she saw that there was nothing else to do 
but to give it up. 

He put it in his own pocket unopened, and 
marched his prisoner away, while the distressed 
mother and sister stood watching and weeping at 
the gate. 


06 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A PRISONER. 

There is something mysterious about village boys. 
Where do they all come from so suddenly, when the 
upsetting of a wagon, or a dog-fight, or any other 
exciting thing takes place in the street? 

When Bent Barry was arrested by policeman 
Reach, not another boy was visible. But now they 
seemed to start up on all sides, like Roderick Dhu’s 
men at the signal of his shrill whistle. From up- 
street and down-street, from main-street and by- 
street, they came running and hooting, until the 
wretched captive, on arriving at the lock-up, found 
himself surrounded by a mob of his young acquaint- 
ances. 

Reach drove them back, with threats of arrest if 
they did not keep quiet and disperse ; and led his 
charge down a pair of stone steps to a door under [4 
corner of the town-hall. 

This door opened into a large, low basement room 
with grated windows. On the left was the bar, 
writing-desk, and benches of the village police- 
court. On the right a grated door opened into a 
dark entry beyond. 

There was nobody in the court-room when Reach 
brought in his prisoner, closed the street-door be- 
hind him, searched his pockets, took away his knife, 
and then conducted him to the dark entry. 


A PRISONER. 


67 


It was a very small entry, only a few feet square ; 
and on each side of it were two more doors with 
grated openings, each leading into a cell with white- 
washed wall and a floor of brick. 

I haven’t got to go into one of those holes, have 
I?” said Bent, drawing back. 

** Yes, you have,” said the policeman. 

Why not leave me in this large room ? I couldn’t 
get out if I tried.” 

“ Maybe you couldn’t ; but I am responsible for 
you, and if you were my own brother, I should have 
to do with you what I do with every prisoner.” 

Bent had kept up pretty well until now. But 
when he found himself in one of the little, dismal 
cells, with Keach on the other side of the grated 
door, locking it, his heart sank miserably. 

All the daylight that entered there had first to 
pass through the barred and curtained windows of 
the court-room, then through the entry-door and 
cell-door ; so that there was but little of it left by 
the time it reached the prisoner. 

Don’t leave a follow in the dark,” he implored. 

Oh, no,” said Keach ; “ you shall have all the 
comforts of the place.” 

He struck a match, and lighted a jet of gas in the 
little entry. That wasn’t much like the free and 
open light of heaven, but it was better than nothing. 
It shone into the cell, making a fantastic checker- 
work of the shadow of the grating on the white wall 
at the end. 


68 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


How long shall I have to stay here ? Bent 
asked. 

Till Judge Carson comes home, any way. Then 
if you can get bail you will be let out.’' 

When will I have my trial ? ” 

You must be brought before the justice within 
twenty-four hours of the time of your arrest. We 
can’t keep a man longer than that.” 

“ Then what ? ” 

“ Then if there's no evidence against you, you’ll 
be discharged. If there’s evidence enough to hold 
you, you’ll be committed to the county jail, or bound 
over, to await the action of the grand jury. If they 
find an indictment against you, then you’ll have to 
stand a jury trial before the superior criminal court. 
That’s the way it works, my young friend.” 

So saying. Reach, having locked the entry-door, 
went out through the large room, and presently 
Bent heard the outer door closed and locked. 

He could still hear the mob of boys hooting out- 
side. But that noise was quickly stopped after 
Reach appeared among them. Then the only sounds 
that reached him were the faint clatter of hoofs and 
the rumble of wagon-wheels in the street. 

He was alone — alone as he had never been before 
in his life. 

You are not alone, my boy, when in the street or 
in the woods, or in your room at home, though you 
have no companion. You have liberty ; you have 
free thoughts, and if you choose, you can in a few 
minutes rejoin your friends. 


A PRISONER. 


69 


If you would know what it is to be alone, get into 
a lock-up, as Bent did. 

The cell was six feet long and four feet wide. Any 
boy can measure off a corner of his room, and see 
how large a space that is. Two long strides will 
show you the length, and a shorter step and a half 
the breadth. Do you see it? 

At one side was a coarse, hard, soiled mattress, on 
an iron frame fastened to the wall. Above this was 
another frame, which could also be used as a couch ; 
but it was now turned up on its hinges and fastened 
flat against the side of the cell. 

The room contained absolutely nothing else but a 
prison slop-pail ; not a wash-stand, not even a stool. 

If Bent wished to sit down, he must sit on his bed 
or on the brick floor. 

He had not seen either of his accomplices in the 
crowd. But no doubt they had heard of his arrest 
by this time. What would they do ? 

He walked restlessly to and fro within his narrow 
bounds, and heaped curses upon those bad compan- 
ions. He blamed his sister too ; he was inclined to 
blame everybody but himself. 

“ I might have got to the woods with that medal 
if it hadnT been for her. And what did she let 
Keach see her take it for? It^s all over with me 
now ! No use of making up a story ; nobody’ll be- 
lieve a word I say.” 

Then he sat down on his bed and gave himself up 
to miserable reflections. 


60 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


He heard the village clock strike eleven, and 
remembered how he had listened to the lonesome 
striking of the hours on that moonlit night when the 
evil was done for which he was now to suffer. 

Only night before last 1’’ he said to himself. It 
seems to me a month/' 

How tediously the time dragged ! He thought it 
must be near the middle of the afternoon, when again 
the clock struck. He counted. 

i( One — two. I knew it was late as two. Three 
— four. But I didn’t think it was four. Five — six. 
Is it so near night? Seven — eight. That clock’s 
crazy ! Nine — ten — eleven — TWELVE ! ” 

Bent was appalled. He had been in his cell but 
an hour since he counted the last peals of the clock. 
It was now noon. 

Not long after he heard the street-door open, and 
Reach’s voice in the court-room. Then another — a 
woman’s grief-stricken voice — reached him. 

Then the keeper came and unlocked the grated 
doors, saying : 

“ Your mother is here. Bent. You can come out 
and see her.” 

She had advanced to meet him ; but the sight of 
her boy — her only son — coming out of that 
wretched den, overcame her, and she turned away 
with a stifled sob. 

Bent came out with an injured and sulky air, and 
followed her to a bench before the bar. There she 
made a show of putting down and arranging a bas' 


A PRISONER. 


61 


ket she had brought in, while she was in realitj' 
hiding her tears. 

Then she said, in a half-choked voice : 

“ Pve brought you some books and papers to read, 
and some dinner, Benton.” 

He answered, sullenly ; 

I don’t want anything to read, nor anything to 
eat, either.” 

She was too much used to his ingratitude and ill- 
nature to be surprised, or even offended. 

Oh, yes, my son,” she said, recovering her self- 
control, and seating herself on the bench. “ You’ll 
want something to amuse you. And I thought you 
would relish some of my cooking more than any- 
body else’s, though I am sure Mr. Keach would 
bring you a good dinner.” 

Keach was still in thj room. But he soon went 
out through a door which led to another part of the 
basement. 

She opened her basket, and set out her little store 
of dainties on the bench. 

With the pies and jellies he loved, there was a 
substantial slice of boiled ham, which was his favor- 
ite dish. He was a boy, after all ; and no boy in 
health, whatever happens, can long forget that he 
has an appetite. 

He sat down on the other side of his dinner, and 
attacked the ham, but still with a surly air. 

How long before I am going to get bail, an) 
way ? ” he asked. 


62 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


“ I don’t know. 1 have telegraphed to your fa- 
ther,” she replied, and I am sure he will start for 
home as soon as a despatch reaches him.” 

“ Have I got to wait for him ? ” he growled over 
his victuals. 

The truth was, the poor woman had already 
spoken to her friends and neighbors about this 
business of bail. But none of them had seemed 
quite willing to give a bond for his appearance at 
court. Either they were afraid he would run away, 
or they thought a little jail experience would do 
him good. Bent, I am sorry to say, was not popular 
with the sober village fathers. 

Mrs. Barry explained this to him as delicately as 
she could. In his heart he could not blame them. 
For he had secretly determined that, if once admitted 
to bail, he would take himself well out of the way, no 
matter who had to pay the forfeited bond. 

He had an excuse for scolding his mother, how- 
ever. 

Don’t feel so bad about it,” she pleaded with 
him. If you are innocent, you won’t be kept in 
confinement long. I have sent to town for Mr. 
Barstow.” 

“ What have you sent for Mr. Barstow for ? ” Bent 
asked, although he guessed very well why. 

Lawyer Barstow,” she explained. I thought 
you’d better have counsel.” 

“ Well, maybe I had,” he muttered. “ What do 
folks say about it ? Everybody knows, I suppose.” 


A PRISONER. 


63 


“ Yes, it’s all over town that the Harrison house 
was broken into, and that you have been taken up. 
Now, my poor boy,’^ she appealed to him, with tears 
of grief and affection, can’t you tell your mother 
everything ? ” 

I didn’t break into the house. That’s all there 
is to tell,” said Bent. This was all she could get 
from him ; but she was grateful even for that. 

I felt sure you were innocent I ” she exclaimed, 
with more tears. So don’t be down-hearted. Ev- 
erything shall be done for you that can be done. 
Good-bye, my poor dear boy I ” 

Keach had now returned, and was waiting to let 
her out. 

Mr. Barstow came out from the city in an early 
train that afternoon, visited the lock-up, and had a 
talk with the prisoner. 

And now Bent made another mistake. He ought 
to have told his lawyer everything, and followed his 
advice. But he could not make up his mind to be 
truthful. 

Mr. Barstow did not urge him. Perhaps, since he 
was to try to convince others that the boy was inno- 
cent, he did not care to hear a confession of his guilt. 

Judge Carson, who had issued the warrant in the 
morning, and then gone to town on other business, 
also came out that afternoon. And when Keach 
brought Bent his supper, he told him that his trial 
was to take place that evening at seven o’clock. 


64 


^HE SILVER MEDAL. 


The sooner the better/’ said Bent, although thfc 
announcement gave him an anxious thrill. 

“ If I’m to be kept locked up,” he thought, I’d 
rather go to jail, where there are other prisoners, 
than stay in this lonesome place.” 

After he had eaten his supper, he sat on his mat- 
tress, thinking over what he had already told Martha 
and Mr. Barstow, and what he should say to the 
judge, when he heard the street-door opened, and 
the footsteps and voices of men entering the court- 
room. 

Then Keach came to unlock his cell-door and take 
him out. 

The judge and Mr. Barstow, and two of the select- 
men of the town, were already within the bar which 
fenced off the further end of the room, standing with 
their hats on, in the mingled daylight and gaslight, 
chatting and joking under the low ceiling. 

The space which Bent had to cross was rapidly 
filling with spectators. Boys were in the majority. 
He knew almost everybody, and everybody seemed 
to know him, as Keach led him through from the cell 
to the bar. 

There he is ! there he is ! ” he heard somebody 
cry out at the door. 

And then there was a rush down the steps of more 
boys, eager to get a glimpse of their comrade in 
trouble. 

You stand back there, and keep quiet, or you’ll 


A PRISONER. 


65 


get hustled out, every one of you ! Reach called to 
the noisy ones, and there was a momentary hush. 

How often in his capacity of policeman and janitor 
of the town-hall he had spoken to Bent in just that 
official, authoritative tone ! The poor fellow wished 
he was one of that free and reckless crowd now. 

It was a hard place for a bashful boy, to sit on a 
conspicuous bench inside the bar, and be stared at 
by everybody ; that is, by everybody lucky enough 
to get within sight of him. The crowd pressed up to 
the bar ; those behind stood on tiptoe to look over 
the shoulders of those before, while those still far- 
ther back jostled and elbowed for place. 

The judge, having uttered his last joke, took his 
seat and laid off his hat ; and Reach called for order 
in the court. Meanwhile Lawyer Barstow placed 
himself at the table, with writing materials before 
him, and the prisoner at his elbow. 

It was a warm night, and the windows were open ; 
and looking in through the grating of one of them, 
with other faces appeared the face of Luke Snaffy. 

His eyes met Bent’s, and he gave him a dark, de- 
termined look. 

That look said, Don’t you tell of me I ” Then 
Luke’s face was withdrawn from the grating, and 
Bent saw it no more. 

The judge, after a little formal business with the 
officer who had returned the warrant, informed Bent 
that he had been arrested for housebreaking, on a 
5 


66 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


complaint entered by Jason Locke, and asked if be 
was ready for trial. 

Mr. Barstow answered for him, We are ready.” 

He had just told Bent that if he wished to have 
his case continued to the next day, when Mr. Barry 
would probably be at home, he could have his 
trial postponed. But Bent did not know how his 
father could help him, or that anything would be 
gained by delay. 

A smiling young reporter for the village newspa- 
per, having got through the crowd, now seated him- 
self at a corner of the table, prepared to make of the 
case something pleasantly interesting for his readers. 

The first witness called was Jason Locke. 


BEFORE JUDGE CARSON. 


67 


CHAPTER VIII. 

BEFORE JUDGE CARSON. 

Old Jason was thin and bent, and he had a poor 
little puckered face and small black eyes. 

Having taken the usual oath, to tell the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he stood be- 
tween the judge’s table and the bench on which 
Bent sat, and, after answering a few questions, went 
on with his story. 

“ Wal, ye see. Mis’ Harrison’s folks had left me in 
charge of the place, and though I wa’n’t expected to 
stay there nights, I had to look after it days, and 
every mornin’ I went carefully around to see if there 
was any appearance of things havin’ been disturbed. 
For I felt responsible — ” 

No matter about your responsibility,” said the 
judge. Tell us what you know of the house being 
broken into.” 

That was Tuesday night,” said old Jason. 

“ Tell us how you know it was Tuesday night.” 

Because I’d seen nothin’ suspicious before then, 
and it was that night I heard the dogs bark.” 

What dogs? ” 

Wal, my dog begun it, and woke me up out of a 
sound sleep. I says to my wife, says I, ^ Becky,’ says 
I — ” 

I don’t know that we care to hear what you said 


68 


THE SILVER MEDAL, 


to your wife,” remarked the judge, while a laugh ran 
through the crowd. “ Tell us what you heard and 
saw.” 

That^s what I am a-tellinh My dog begun it ; 
and I says to Becky, ^ Becky,’ says I — ” 

The crowd laughed again. 

“ Order in the court ! ” roared Keach, behind the 
judge’s chair. 

Well, go on,” said the judge, seeing that the old 
man must be left to tell his story in his own way. 

‘ Becky,’ says I, ^ that’s Tip ; and he’s barkin’ at 
suthin’, this time,’ says I. For he’d been barkin’ at 
nothin’, earlier in the evenin’ ; it was one o’ them air 
moonlight nights that make dogs feel sociable. But 
I know the difference ’tween the bark of a dog that’s 
barkin’ jest for comp’ny and the bark of a dog that’s 
excited by the sight of some strange critter. So I 
says to my wife, ^ Becky,’ says I — ” 

What time of night was it? ” the judge inquired ; 
while the reporter wrote very fast, grinning over bis 
paper. 

Not much after midnight,” he replied. 

Bid you look at the clock ? ” 

No ; but there was no more sleep for me that 
night, or till ’long towards mornin’ ; an’ I think I 
must have laid awake nigh onto an hour when I 
heard our clock, an’ then the town-clock, strike one. 
Our clock was a leetle mite fast.” 

‘‘ Did you see anything?” the judge asked. 

^^Wal, as I was goin’ to say, I says to my wife, 


BEFORE JUDGE CARSON. 


69 


‘ Becky,’ says I, ^ that dog never’d bark so in this 
world if there wa’n’t somebody around.’ She thought 
so, too, an’ said I’d better git up an’ look out o’ the 
winder. By that time another dog had set in — a 
big dog — both right over in the field back o’ my 
house.” 

What did you see ? ” 

“ Suthin’ mighty queer,” replied the old man, cast- 
ing his eyes about the court-room, and talking to the 
interested spectators. The dogs was havin’ a 
tearin’ time, but I couldn’t see ’em, nor nothin’ at 
fust, but jest two or three white things — looked as 
if they might be geese — movin’ along on top o’ the 
wall. ‘ Becky,’ says I, ‘ for massy sakes 1 ’ says I — ” 

What were the white things?” 

Wal, of course, I knowed they couldn’t be geese 
geese don’t climb walls, and scoot along that way; 
and ’twa’n’t the motion of flyin’ — ’twas ruther the 
motion of trottin’.” 

How many did you say there were ? ” 

I made out three, and finally four, but that was 
when they went over the next wall into the woods. 
But by that time my eyes had got used to the night, 
an’ I see suthin’ ’sides the white things.” 

Tell us what.” 

Wal, as 1 said to my wife, ‘ Becky,’ says I, ‘ each 
one o’ them white things has got somebody a-car- 
ryin’ on’t ! ’ says I. An’ that was the fact. The 
thieves was a-runnin’, an’ the dogs was a-chasin’ on 
’em behind the fust wall ; then we see ’em all four 
go over the t’other wall an’ into the woods.” 


70 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Did you recognize either of the thieves, as you 
call them? ” 

Nary one ; an’ I wa’n’t sure at the time they was 
thieves ; an’ what on airth the white things was they 
was a- carry in’ neither me nor my wife could form 
the slightest idee. But as I said to my wife, ^ Becky,’ 
says I, ^ there’s suthin’ wrong,’ says I, ‘ you may be 
sure ; an’ if I thought ’ — ” 

Did she see what you have described?” 

Yes; an’ that, an’ the barkin’ o’ the dogs for an 
hour after, an’ the mystery on’t, which we talked 
over an’ over, all put together, was too much for her 
narves, an’ that was why I had to call in Dr. Lombard 
to her the next day. An’ Dr. Lombard he said, says 
he — ” 

“ Never mind what Dr. Lombard said,” again the 
judge interrupted. 

Bent had sat listening to the old man’s testimony 
with as courageous a face as he could command, 
wondering if it betrayed to everybody that he knew 
very well what the mystery of the white things 
meant. 

He was extremely anxious to know what evidence 
there was against him beyond the medal found on 
his person. And now when Dr. Lombard’s name 
was mentioned, his countenance changed. 

Evidently the judge did not know what the boy 
knew was coming, or he wouldn’t have stopped the 
old man. 

Tell us about the robbery,” said the judge. 


BEFORE JUDGE CARSON. 


71 


That^s just what I was a-tellinV^ the witness re- 
sumed. “ For it was what the doctor said that set 
me on the track.’^ 

Bent felt sick. He made but sorry work of trying 
to keep his countenance firm and calm; he knew 
that he was looking pale. 

“ Very well; go on then/^ said the judge. 

“ When I told the doctor about the fright she got 
the night afore, an’ what a mystery it all was, he 
says, ^ That reminds me,’ says he, ‘ of suthin’ I see 
last evenin,’ says he.” 

Here Bent’s lawyer, for the first time, interposed. 

I object. These says Ts and says he’s are taking 
up the time, and serving to amuse the spectators 
rather than to throw any light on the case. If Dr. 
Lombard has any important testimony to give, he 
can give it here ; we don’t care for it at second- 
hand.” 

Dr. Lombard has been summoned,” the judge 
explained, and he will be here, I understand, in the 
course of the evening. Meanwhile, I don’t see any 
great objection to letting the witness tell what it 
was that set him, as he said, on the track of the rob- 
bery.” 

The lawyer thereupon withdrew his objection, 
and old Jason resumed. 

* As I was goin’ along Ash Street, about nine 
o’clock,’ says the doctor, says he, ^ I met a young 
feller,’ says he, * and I shouldn’t have noticed him 
if he hadn’t acted as if he wanted to avoid me. I 


72 


TH3 SILVER MEDAL. 


was in the middle of the street, an’ he was over 
close agin the fence,’ says he, * an’ as I moved over 
towards him, he put his head down, so as to hide his 
face, or partly hide it,’ says he. 

“ ^ Was this near the Harrison place ? ’ says 1. 

“ ^ Yes,’ says he ; ‘ the boy seemed to be skulkin’ 
by the Harrisons’ fence ; an’ I wondered then,’ says 
he, ^ whether any mischief was plottin’ in conse- 
quence of the family bein’ away.’ 

That went through me like a shot,” the witness 
continued. “ I jumped up, an’ says I, ‘ Did you 
know the feller?’ says I. He said he thought he 
did, for it was bright moonlight, an’ he was kin’ o’ 
near-sighted — ” 

“We will hear the rest from Dr. Lombard him- 
self,” said Mr. Barstow, while Bent drew a long 
breath. “ Now we know it was something the doc- 
tor said that set the witness on the track; and he 
can go on and tell us what was the next thing he 
did.” 

“ I took the key, an’ rushed right over to the Har- 
rison place. I’d been there that mornin,’ an’ found 
the house all shut up an’ quiet. But now I looked 
sharp, an’ noticed some tracks acrost the strawberry- 
bed. I traced ’em goin’ and cornin’ ; an’ it looked as 
if a passel of fellers had got over into the garden 
from Haskell’s lot, an’ gone back over the fence 
agin, in perty nigh the same place. I felt skairt; 
for says I to myself, says I — ” 

“ What else did you discover ? ” 


BEFORE JUDGE CARSON. 


73 


“ I found tracks around the house ; an^ then I un- 
locked the door an^ went in. Fust, I didn’t notice 
anything out of the way ; blinds all shet, curtains all 
down, an’ doors an’ winders fast. I opened one in 
the kitchen. An’ then I see a bottle with the neck 
broke off in the sink, an’ glasses that had been 
drinked out on; visitin’ cards spilt on the parlor- 
floor ; things upset gener’ly ; and piller-cases stripped 
ofPm the beds ; an’ then I knowed what the white 
things was I had seen lugged ofiP.” 

“ Could you tell what other things had been 
taken ? ” 

No ; for 1 didn’t know everything that was in 
the house ’fore it was broke into.” 

“ How do you know it had been broken into, if 
you found doors and windows all fast ? ” Mr. Barstow 
inquired. 

Wal,” said the old man, a shrewd smile pucker- 
ing his mouth and twinkling in his small black eyes, 
that was a mystery to me till Anally I stepped on a 
piece of glass under a winder in the lib’ry. Then I 
whipped up the curtain, and diskivered a hole made 
in a pane just under the fastenin’ of the sash. The 
thieves had reached in and unfastened it when they 
got in, and then reached in and fastened it agin after 
they got out.” 

Then what did you do ? ” 

Theu I fastened up everything agin, and went 
straight to find Mr. Nason, for I knowed he was one 
of the selectmen, an’ a friend of the Harrisons. He 


74 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


went with me an’ looked at the house ; an’ says he, 
^ I’ll send right off to let the Harrisons know ; an’ 
meanwhile you’d better say nothin’ to nobody, but 
jest keep a sharp lookout, an’ likely enough you’ll 
ketch somebody.’ So I worked in the garden, an’ 
then went home to supper, but slipped back jest at 
dusk, an’ hid by a syringa-bush, near the lib’ry win- 
der that had been broke into; for I thought if the 
thieves come back for more plunder, that was the 
way they would get in.” 

How long did you keep watch ? ” 

“ Not more’n an hour ; which wa’n’t half so long as 
I expected, for the thieves — or the thief — was a 
bigger fool ’n I thought. It wa’n’t much after nine 
o’clock when I heard somebody ; he was cornin’ by 
the barn, kin’ o’ tiptoein’ along, an’ stoppin’, an’ then 
cornin’ a few steps farther.” 

Was it dark, Mr. Locke ? ” 

“ Perty dark where I was, in the shadder of the 
house, by the syringa-bush. But I had one good 
look at the thief as he crossed a strip of moonlight 
’twixt the barn an’ the house. Then he come an’ 
stood right afore me, not further off ’n from me to 
him now.” And the witness turned to look at the 
prisoner. 

Bent did not start or stir; not a muscle of his 
face moved ; but he kept his pale features and glis- 
tening eyes fixed steadfastly on the old man. 

Well, go on,” said the judge. 

Jest as he was goin’ to step up on the bank un- 


NWwwwv 



^6 


That's Him.” Page 7 



BEFORE JUDGE CARSON. 


75 


der the winder, then he see me. He stopped and 
stood stock-still ; an’ neither on us spoke nor stirred 
for a matter of eight or ten seconds. Then he took 
to his heels, an’ I after him.” 

Did you catch him ? ” 

Not much 1 ” said the old man. He legged it 
like a deer. But I had got what I wanted. I knowed 
the feller.” 

Who was it ? ” 

Again the old man turned and stretched out his 
hand towards Bent. 

That’s him.” 

You’re sure ? ” 

I ain’t sure ; I’m positive I ” exclaimed the wit- 
ness. “ That’s the way he come to be took up. I 
spoke to Mr. Nason about it, and he said I ought to 
make a complaint to you, an’ git out a warrant.” 

^^How did you recognize the prisoner at that 
time ? ” 

How ? Wal,” said old Jason, wonderingly, ^Oiow 
do you recognize anybody? He looked like Bent 
Barry ; and I was ruther expectin’ ’twas Bent Barry; 
for Dr. Lombard had told me he felt sartin ’twas 
Bent Barry ; that he — ” 

“ No matter about that ! ” Mr. Barstow objected. 

But too late. So when he came to cross-examine 
the witness, he tried to make of this part of the evi- 
dence a point in Bent’s favor. 

The next witness was Dr. Lombard, who swore 
quite positively that Bent was the boy he met on 
Ash Street on Tuesday night. 


76 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Mr. Barstow did not care to question him. So far, 
the evidence against Bent was by no means conclu- 
sive. The next and last witness was Policeman 
Keach. He explained the manner of the arrest, and 
produced a small package, tied up in a piece of 
newspaper, which he said was found on the person 
of the prisoner. 

Do you know what it is ? ’’ the judge inquired, 
as he received it. 

do not. And I shouldn’t have thought much 
about it if I hadn’t seen him give it to his sister 
when he thought I wasn’t looking. She called it 
a girl’s picture, and tried hard to keep it out of my 
hands. I took it, but I promised not to look at it; 
and the first thing I did after I got to my room was 
to put that paper and string around it.” 

Bent heard this part of the testimony with ex- 
treme anxiety, and quite forgot that all eyes were 
upon him, while he watched intently to see what 
the judge would do. 

You have acted very discreetly,” said the judge, 
with a smile. But I suppose the court will have 
to take cognizance of the contents of the package.” 

So saying, he removed the wrapper and opened 
the morocco case. Bent saw with a sinking heart 
a gleam of the silver medal. 

This is no girl’s picture I ” said the judge, sur- 
prised ; and holding the medal in the light, he began 
to read the inscription ; 


BEFORE JUDGE CARSON. 


77 


“ To John Harrison^ for humane exertions in rescuing 
from drowning Benton Barry ^ 

A rustle of excitement ran through the crowd of 
spectators. 

Whatever doubt there might have been regarding 
the previous evidence, this seemed terribly decisive. 

The boy-prisoner, then, was a monster, who had 
stolen the very medal which had been awarded to 
his preserver for saving his life I 

Poor Bent knew that he looked the guilty wretch 
he was. His last hope had vanished. He was pre- 
pared for the worst. He resolved to attempt no 
explanations ; and when asked if he wished to be 
examined, — knowing that he would be put under 
oath, and closely questioned, — he replied, after a 
brief whispered consultation with his lawyer : 

I didn’t steal that medal, and I never broke into 
anybody’s house ; and that’s all I can say.” 

“ Can’t you explain how you came by the medal ? ” 
the judge asked, regarding him sadly. 

I took it to return it to the Harrisons ; but 1 
can’t tell how I came by it, for I promised not to.” 

As this was all he would say, Mr. Barstow now 
rose, and made a few remarks in his behalf. 

Your Honor will see,” he said in conclusion, “ that 
there is no valid reason why the prisoner should not 
be discharged. What if one witness has sworn that 
he saw him on Ash Street, near the Harrison place, 
on Tuesday evening? Suppose he had seen your 


78 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Honor or myself there ? Would that implicate us in 
the robbery ? And what if another witness, prompted 
by what he had been told by this one, did imagine he 
saw the boy approach the broken window in the 
Harrison house the next evening ? That is as lame 
a piece of evidence as 1 ever heard in my life, and 
I am sure it must have seemed so to the court. As 
for the medal, it is utterly preposterous to suppose 
that this boy should have stolen it. In fact, there is 
no evidence whatever that it was stolen. Whoever 
had it before Benton Barry took it in order to return 
it may have had it honestly. Before a theft can be 
charged, it is necessary to show that something has 
been stolen. Who has sworn to that medal ? Who 
can say, even, that it was in the house when the 
house was broken into ? 

Mr. Barstow argued so plausibly and so earnestly 
that poor Bent almost began to believe himself inno- 
cent, and to hope that he might be released. 

But the judge promptly decided that there was 
evidence enough to hold him for the grand jury. 
And as nobody came forward to offer bail for him, it 
became the painful duty of the court to commit the 
prisoner. 

What does that mean ? ” Bent whispered to his 
lawyer. 

It means,” was the cold reply, “ that you will 
have to go to jail.” 


JOHN HARRISON. 


79 


CHAPTER IX. 

JOHN HARRISON. 

Officer Keach once more took charge of the pris- 
oner, and the court adjourned. 

Bent was led back through the dispersing crowd 
to his miserable cell. 

I^m not going to be shut up here again, am I ? 
he said, despairingly. 

Yes, you are,’' replied the oflScer ; “ for to-night. 
It's so late you can’t be taken to jail now until to- 
morrow." 

The boy felt a strange horror at being locked up 
again in that lonesome place. For one night ! How 
could he live through that night? 

Why won’t somebody bail me ? " he exclaimed, 
ready to break down under his load of misery. 

And after he was locked in his cell, he sat down 
on his bed and gave way to a fit of sobbing. 

Keach cleared the court-room, shut the windows, 
and put out the lights. Only the entry gas-jet which 
shone into Bent’s cell was left burning low. 

Then Keach himself went out, and turned the 
key in the strong lock of the street-door. 

Bent was alone, with a terrible night before him. 

The weather was warm, and the gas-light and the 
crowd had made the atmosphere of the court-room 
hot and close. And this was the air left for the 
prisoner to breathe. 


80 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


What was worse, mosquitoes had come in during 
the evening. They were not very noticeable amidst 
the excitement of the trial, for then they had the 
court and spectators to prey upon. But now their 
attentions, which had been divided impartially among 
so many, began to be concentrated on one. 

Did they scent out their victim ? or did the low 
burning gas-jet attract and guide them .5^ Bent did 
not know ; he only knew that they came pouring 
into his cell. 

Keach had offered him a blanket, which he had 
declined, the night was so warm. He wished he 
had it now, to cover his face and hands from the 
humming swarm of tormentors. 

He used his handkerchief instead, and tried to 
sleep. But in a few minutes, stifled, stung, he started 
up in a frenzy of despair. 

“ Oh, I shall die ! ’’ he cried out ; “ I shall die ! ” 
And springing to the floor, he paced to and fro, 
slapping his face and hands, and gasping for 
breath. 

Where is my father ? Oh, father ! father I ” he 
called, “ why donT you come ? ” 

When it seemed as if he could endure no more, 
he flung himself exhausted on his bed, feeling that 
he should certainly die there before morning. 

There came a noise at the street-door, a turning 
of the key in the lock, voices and footsteps enter- 
ing ; then the sudden flash of lighted gas in the 
court- room. 


JOHN HARRISON. 


S\ 


Bent knew that more than one man had come in. 
One was Keach ; who was with him ? 

“ Is it my father ? he tremblingly asked, as the 
officer appeared at the grated door of his cell. 

Your father ? no,” Keach replied. 

Bent’s heart sank again. 

But Keach proceeded to unlock the cell-door. 

Am I going to jail to-night ? ” the prisoner in- 
quired. 

“ No, my boy.” 

Bent was puzzled, hardly yet daring to hope. 

“ What is it, then ? ” 

“ It’s bail ; that’s what it is,” replied the officer. 

The iron door swung back with a clang, and Bent 
walked out, dumb with astonishment and joy. 

In the court-room he found Judge Carson and the 
good friend who had come to deliver him. 

It was he who saved him once before, when no- 
body else came to his rescue. It was he whose 
humane exertions ” the wretched boy had repaid 
with the basest ingratitude. It was the owner of 
the stolen medal. 

“ Oh, John Harrison ! ” Bent’s voice broke forth in 
a sob, as he bowed his shamed and convulsed face 
over the hand that grasped his own. 

I have but just got home, or I should have been 
here sooner,” said young Harrison, with a tremor in 
his own voice at sight of the boy’s emotion. ‘‘ Luck- 
ily, the judge hadn’t gone to bed ; but I bad to wake 
Keach up out of his first nap.” 

6 


82 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Bent stood and trembled, and shed tears down his 
remorseful face. 

“ Aren’t you glad ? said the young man. “ I’ve 
come to sign your bail-bond, you know, so that you 
can go home to your mother, and sleep in your own 
bed to-night.” 

“ But — you ! ” stammered the prisoner. After 
I — ” 

Almost he would rather have gone back into that 
dismal cell than have accepted freedom at the hands 
of John Harrison. If he had never before known 
what coals of fire were, he knew now. 

The bond was signed, however, and he was free. 
He had no words to thank anybody. He started to go. 

“ I’ll walk with you,” said John Harrison, cheerily, 
coming to his side. 

And they went out into the sweet night-air, and 
the light of the moon and stars. 

Bent tried to say something, but his voice stuck 
in his throat. 

^‘I’ve seen your mother,” said John Harrison, as 
they walked up the street together. “ She had had 
no doubt but that your innocence would appear, and 
that you would be discharged. She had just heard 
of the different result. We must hasten, my boy, 
for she is suffering on your account. You and I, 
Bent, don’t know how mothers suffer when their 
boys are in trouble ! ” 

Still Bent could not talk. John went with him to 
his father’s gate. 


JOHN HAERISON. 


8B 


Now, hurry in,^^ he said ; “ they are sitting up 
for you.’^ 

You come in, too, won’t you ? ” said Bent. They 
can thank you.” 

“ No need of any thanks,” John replied. “ Good- 
night.” 

Again Bent struggled to speak ; but before he 
could get his voice the young man was gone, walk- 
ing fast down the moonshiny street. 

He must think I am a brute ! ” said Bent to him- 
self. “ How he has treated me, and how I have 
treated him ! ” 

He was still lingering at the gate, when the door 
opened, and his mother stood and looked out, with 
the dim glow of the lamp-lit entry behind her. 

“ Is that you, my son ? ” she said in a hopeful, 
tremulous voice. 

He murmured something, and advanced to the 
doorstep, where she fell sobbing upon his neck. 

Martha stood in the little room beyond, watching 
him with brightly glistening eyes. 

Well, you have got out, have you ? ” she said, as 
his mother, still weeping for joy, drew him into the 
house. “ Was that John Harrison who came to the 
gate with you ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Bent, humbly. He gave bail for me, 
when nobody else would.” 

Just like him ! ” Martha exclaimed. 

“ But why — how happens it — that you didn’t get 
discharged?” faltered his mother; “as 1 certainly 


84 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


hoped and believed you would, if you were inno- 
cent.” 

The remorseful boy could not stand that. 

“ Because I am not innocent ! ” he burst forth im- 
petuously. 

Not innocent ! ” gasped his mother, sinking down 
upon a chair. You told me — ” 

I didn’t steal the medal, and I said I didn’t break 
into the house. But that was half a lie. I knew all 
about its being broken into.” 

You were there? ” 

Yes, I was there ; I went into the house after the 
fellows had broken in. The law, I suppose, would 
make me out as bad as they are. So I couldn’t own 
up to what I did do, and I wouldn’t name them — I 
wouldn’t be so mean as that.” 

Mrs. Barry was dumb with consternation. Martha 
compressed her lips, and kept her severe eyes on 
the guilty boy. He sat with his head sunk on his 
breast, his features working, and his breath coming 
short and thick, after his impulsive confession. 

How did you — how did you come to — ? ” his 
mother asked at length. 

Because I was a fool ; I don’t know of any other 
reason,” said Bent. 

And what are you going to do now ? ” Martha 
asked. 

She had less charity for him than her mother had, 
as was natural enough. She thought he ought to 
suffer. 


JOHN HARRISON. 


85 


Take the coDsequences, I suppose/’ Bent replied, 
more firmly than he had before spoken. 

He even found a consolation in that thought ; he 
had done wrong, and he would take the conse- 
quences. It was a sort of pillow of rest to his mis- 
erable head as he lay thinking over his conduct, 
alone in his room that night. 

“ I won’t shirk. I won’t try to get off by laying 
the blame on others,” he said to himself again and 
again. “ But I will just get through the best I can 
— and take the consequences.” 

John Harrison’s generous and noble conduct had 
produced a strange effect upon him. It was as if a 
great light had streamed in upon his darkened con- 
science. His previous inward struggles, on discov- 
ering that he was implicated in stealing the very 
medal awarded for the saving of his own life, had 
prepared him for that light. 

He now began to compare himself with John. 

He was just about as old as I am now when he 
pulled me out of the water. But what a different 
boy he was ! He was full of fun, and as fond of a 
good time as anybody. But he never let his fun in- 
terfere with his studies, or anything he ought to do. 
He was always ready to help others — even to risk 
his life,” — as poor Bent knew only too well. 

That made his folks always so fond and proud of 
him — as well they might be ! while I — ” 

He gnashed his teeth at the thought of his own 
folly and guilt. 


86 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Yet John was a plain sort of young fellow, with- 
out the least pretence of goodness or heroism. 

“ Not particularly good-looking,” thought Bent ; 
and so quiet ! That^s what almost made me forget 
he ever did save my life. He seemed to have for- 
gotten it himself, as if it had been a sort of accident. 
But his bailing me out of jail to-night shows that it 
wasn’t an accident, nor anything of the sort.” 

So the tired and unhappy boy thought and thought, 
until he fell asleep. 


MORE PRISONERS. 


87 


CHAPTER X. 

MORE PRISONERS. 

The next day his mother and sister tried to make 
him talk more freely about the affair, and name his 
accomplices. But he was afraid he had already said 
too much, and he remained reserved and silent. 

Martha gave him sound advice. “ Your only 
way,^^ she said, “ is to go right over to John Harri- 
son, and tell him everything. He can do more for 
you than anybody else can.” 

It would have been well for him if he had followed 
this wise counsel. But he could not make up his 
mind to tell all the truth. 

He was alone in the garden that afternoon, in a 
wretched state of mind, not knowing what to do 
with himself, when a tall, lank, ill-dressed girl came 
and spoke to him over the back fence. 

It was Jane Cavoort, Seth’s sister. 

He wants to see you,” she whispered, up in 
Watson’s woods ; he says you will know where.” 

I’ll see,” he muttered, adding to himself, as he 
walked away, “ They don’t dare to be caught talk- 
ing with me now. I wish I might never speak with 
one of them again. But I’ll go.” 

He did not like to show himself on the street, so 
he stole out by the back way, and hurried to the 
woods. 


88 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Having got over the fence where he had first 
talked over the miserable business of the burglary 
with Luke Snafiy, he gave a whistle, and presently 
saw Seth come out from behind some bushes. 

‘‘ What do you want?” Bent sulkily demanded, as 
they approached each other, 

“ What do you suppose I want? ” said Seth. It’s 
to see ye, and talk with ye, of course. How are ye 
getting along ? ” 

Like a horse in the mire ; thanks to you fellows,’^ 
Bent replied. 

Needn’t thank us,” said Seth. “ If you hadn’t 
gone to carry the medal back when old Jason was on 
the watch, ’twould have been all right. And that 
was your fault, not ours.” 

But who took the medal in the first place, and 
got me into the scrape ? Oh, it makes me mad to 
think of it 1 ” Bent exclaimed. 

There’s no use being mad,” Seth answered. 
“ You’re in a scrape, and now the next thing is to 
get out.” 

“ Get out ! That’s easily said.” 

“ And easy done, too.” 

“ I should like to know how,” Bent said, incredu- 
lously. 

‘‘ Perfectly simple. You’re free. You’ve got legs 
of your own. Run away.” And Seth stood regard- 
ing him with a grin. 

But I am out on bail,” said Bent. 

I know it. But that makes no sort of difference. 
Put out 1 ” 


MORE PRISONERS. 


89 


And leave John Harrison to pay my bail-bond 
— five hundred dollars ? ” 

“ Why not ? said Seth. “ He can afford it.” 

Bent was so full of wrath and indignation that he 
could not speak for a moment. He turned away with 
a furious countenance, and Seth thought he was going. 

Why, what's the matter ? ” he cried. “ Look here I 
What have I said ? ” 

Don't you know ? ” Bent replied, turning back 
and facing him. That shows what sort of a fellow 
YOU are ! ” 

Why, I don't see,” said Seth. 

No, you don't I He saved my life when nobody 
else would ; then, after I had gone with you fellows 
to break into his house, he bailed me when nobody 
else would. After all that, you would have me give 
him the slip, — leave him to pay the bond ; and you 
don't see how mean it is I That's the worst of it.” 

Bent turned away again. 

“ But what else can you do ? ” Seth demanded, fol- 
lowing him. 

I can die, for one thing ; and I will before I will 
do such a thing as that,” said Bent. 

“ And look here ! ” Seth persisted ; you ain't 
going to blow on us?” 

That's what you're anxious about ! That's what 
you want me to run away for ! I understand ! And 
now I know why you sent for me to meet you here.” 

“ Well, of course. Though you’ve got into a 
scrape, I don't see why you should drag us in.” 


90 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


“ You needn’t be afraid ! ” said Bent. “ It’s lucky 
for you that I’ve got more honor than all the rest 
of you. I guessed what you wanted of me. And 
there’s one thing, Seth Cavoort, I wanted to see you 
for.” 

What is it? ” 

“ That plunder has all got to go back, what there 
is left of it. That troubles me more than anything 
else now. If you don’t see to it, I shall manage 
somehow to let John Harrison know where it is.” 

We’ll see to it,” Seth promised, readily. 

He had no idea of keeping his promise. And 
yet Bent was saved the trouble of warning John 
Harrison. 

Luke Snafiy had already taken alarm and left 
town ; and that evening Seth Cavoort and Will 
Wing made up their minds to follow him. 

“ Since he won’t run away, we must ; for of course 
he’ll blow on us,” said Seth, judging Bent by himself. 

The two fugitives resolved to carry off a little 
more of the plunder, and approached the old bridge 
in the woods for the purpose. The moon had just 
risen when they stole through the bushes down into 
the ravine. Seth was foremost, stooping low, and 
dragging his carpet-bag after him ; but just as his 
head was well under the edge of the bridge, he gave 
a start, and threw himself back upon his companion. 

What is it?” Will whispered. 

Somebody there,” replied Seth, hastily retreating, 

“ Must be Luke,” said Will. 


MORE PRISONERS. 


91 


“ Boys ! boys I it^s me ! the somebody called after 
them in a suppressed voice, and they halted in the 
bushes. 

“ It ain't him I " cried Seth, and started to run. 

Two persons, instead of one, sprang out from the 
shelter of the bridge. The truth was, the hiding- 
place of the plunder had been discovered that morn- 
ing, and some friends of John Harrison had taken 
turns in keeping watch there ever since. 

Will was seized by one of them, and captured 
after a struggle ; while Seth got away by sheer good 
running, but without his bag. 

It was now Will’s turn to occupy the mosquito- 
thronged cell in the dismal town lock-up ; and he had 
hardly left it for the county jail when he was suc- 
ceeded by another culprit. 

It was Seth Cavoort, who had been arrested by 
the police of Boston. 

He, too, was committed to jail to await the action 
of the grand jury. But Luke Snafiy was still at 
large. 


92 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TRIAL. 

The grand jury met in two weeks, considered the 
evidence against Benton Barry, Will Wing, and Seth 
Cavoort, and found bills of indictment against them 
for breaking and entering the premises of Abel Har- 
rison on the night of the 10th of August. These 
indictments, or formal charges, carried the cases to 
the superior criminal court, by which they were to 
be tried. 

Meanwhile, Bent’s father had come home, more 
broken than ever by this new sorrow, and several 
interviews had taken place between him and Lawyer 
Barstow, at which Bent was present. 

At one of these interviews Barstow stated that he 
had talked with the district attorney, who promised 
that, if Bent would consent to give true and full 
evidence against his accomplices, the charge against 
himself should be dropped. It was John Harrison 
who got him to make that promise,” the lawyer 
added ; and I think you should take advantage 
of it.” 

His father also urged and entreated him, but Bent 
remained stubborn. He would never, he said, give 
evidence against anybody merely to save himself. 
He did not steal the medal ; he did not break into 


THE TRIAL. 


93 


the house. He would simply stick to that declara- 
tion, and take the consequences. 

Even while his father tried to convince him that 
he was acting from a mistaken sense of honor, he 
could not but admire the firmness with which his 
son refused to sacrifice others in order to secure his 
own safety. 

The weeks that dragged by were weeks of terri- 
ble anxiety and suspense to the wretched boy. 
Much as he dreaded the trial, he wished it might 
come speedily, so full of suffering was the inter- 
vening time. 

In February the court was in session, and Bent 
was expecting every day to hear that his case was 
reached, when a new incident occurred. Luke 
Snaflfy was recognized, from his photograph, by an 
oflScer in New York, arrested, and taken home. 

When brought before Judge Carson he was con- 
fronted by an unexpected witness. This was a Bos- 
ton pawn-broker, in whose possession a pair of the 
stolen vases had been found. He had described 
very accurately the person of whom he received 
them, and now he positively identified Luke as that 
person. 

It was too late to get his case on the docket for 
that session, and there was talk of postponing the 
other cases, in order that the four culprits might be 
tried together. 

It was with this uncertainty hanging over him 
that Bent entered the court-room with his father 


94 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


on the morning when at last his case was to be 
called. 

They took their places within the bar. Soon Mr. 
Barstow appeared and spoke with them ; and then 
came another lawyer, a celebrated pleader, whom 
Mr. Barry had also employed to defend his son. 
This was Mr. Sourby. He had but a cold and care- 
less word for his client, from whom he turned in a 
lounging, weary sort of way, and went to talking 
with a group of men near by. 

“ Little he cares for anything in my case but his 
fee and his reputation,’’ Bent thought. 

Other lawyers came in ; some stood talking, or sat 
looking over papers. Jurymen entered, some with 
newspapers, which they read in their seats ; the very 
men upon whose verdict the poor fellow felt that his 
fate was to hang. 

Then appeared an old man, thin and bent, with 
puckered face, who took his seat in the witnesses’ 
box. It was old Jason Locke. Bent knew he had 
come to testify against him. 

Other witnesses followed, and, in the mean while, 
the benches behind the bar were filling with a crowd 
of rough and vicious-looking spectators. Bent also 
recognized a number of his own acquaintances, whom 
interest in the famous burglary case had brought to 
20urt. 

Then a sight met his eyes that made him shudder. 
A number of prisoners were brought in, handcuffed 
to a chain. Two of these were Seth Cavoort and 


THE TEIAL. 


95 


Will Wing. Less fortunate than himself, they had 
been unable to get bail. They had been kept in 
confinement since their arrest, and were now brought 
into court like the lowest and most dangerous crim- 
inals. 

Then entered at a side-door the judge and clerk 
of the court, preceded by the sheriff, who thumped 
with his staff of office on the floor, and called out in 
a loud voice : 

Court ! 

The buzz of voices ceased ; the judge took his 
seat on the bench ; and a pompous deputy sheriff, 
standing up at a side desk, proclaimed : 

“ All persons having anything further to do with 
this honorable court, adjourned to this time and 
place, may now draw near and give their attend- 
ance, and they shall be heard. God save the Com- 
monwealth of Massachusetts I 

It was a winter^s day, but already the air of the 
court-room was becoming close and heated from the 
steaming crowd. 

Two of the prisoners, convicted the day before, 
had been brought in to receive the sentence of the 
court, which- the clerk read to them — three years 
each in the state prison. 

Another wished to plead guilty, and avoid a trial. 
The clerk addressed him : 

James Burns, your counsel waives the reading 
of the indictment in this case, which charges you 
with a larceny of a harness from a barn in North 


96 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


Cambridge in July last. Are you guilty, or not 
guilty ? 

Guilty,” said the culprit, standing in the prison- 
ers’ pen, beside Seth Cavoort. 

His counsel then addressed the court, asking for a 
mild sentence. He got it — six months in the house 
of correction. 

These proceedings had a very solemn import for 
Bent Barry, who felt that his turn was coming soon. 
They took up the time until he heard with a start his 
own name called. The case of the Commonwealth 
against Benton Barry had been reached at last. 

The cases of Seth Cavoort and Will Wing were 
called at the same time. 

To Bent’s relief, and to Mr. Barstow’s surprise, 
the district attorney did not urge a postponement, 
in order that Luke Snaffy might be tried with the 
others. They found out afterwards why he did not 
desire a delay. 

The indictments were read by the clerk, solemnly 
charging the boys with the crime for which they had 
been brought to trial, and to each the question was 
put: 

Are you guilty or not guilty ? ” 

And each in turn — Seth and Will in the prison- 
ers’ pen, and Bent inside the bar — stood and made 
answer : 

Not guilty I ” 

The jury of twelve men having been chosen, and 
duly sworn to “ well and truly try ” the matter be* 
fore them, the trial began. 


THE TRIAL. 


97 


The district attorney, in a plain, quiet, straight- 
forward talk, opened the case for the Commonwealth. 

As he went on, stating point by point what he was 
prepared to prove, Bent was filled with consterna- 
tion. His face was flushed, and he was hot all over, 
except his feet, which were clammy-cold. The prose- 
cuting attorney seemed to know all about the bur- 
glary, to its minute details. How had he learned so 
much ? 

But he did not seem to have heard of any miti- 
gating circumstances in Bentos case, which he made 
out to be as black as any. 

When he sat down. Bent found himself in a steam- 
ing sweat, — his feet still cold, his head hot. 

“ Can he prove all that ? his father asked, in an 
anxious whisper. 

“ I don’t know ; I don’t see how he can,” Bent 
faltered. 

Mr. Barry heaved a sigh of discouragement. From 
that time he had small hope of his boy’s acquittal. 

Old Jason Locke was the first witness, and he 
made fun for the jury and the spectators until the 
court adjourned for dinner. 

In the afternoon Dr. Lombard was called to the 
stand. He was followed by OflScer Keach, who swore 
to the capture of the silver medal. It was produced 
in court, and Bent saw it passed round among the jury. 

The next witness was one of the young men who 
had captured Will Wing at the old bridge. He was 
sharply cross-examined by Lawyer Cody, a blutf, 
7 


98 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


red-faced man, who acted as counsel for Seth and 
Will. 

The witness had identified an old carpet-bag which 
he found on the spot, and which he believed Will or 
Seth had carried there when they went for the 
plunder. 

But you don’t Icmw that,” the lawyer insisted. 
You don’t know but that I carried it there.” 

Perhaps you did,” replied the witness, dryly ; 
but I didn’t catch you.” 

Even the honorable court joined in the laugh 
against the lawyer. 

You don’t he again urged, shaking his 

finger at the witness, “ that that bag belongs to 
either of the defendants.” 

“ No,” was the quiet reply. “ I think it more 
likely they stole it.” 

The laugh was against him every time. Still Cody 
pressed the witness. 

You can’t swear that they were going in under 
the bridge for any of that plunder. You don’t know 
but their object was perfectly innocent.” 

“ Well, no,” said the witness, with a humorous 
drawl ; they may have been going in there for a 
prayer-meeting, but I don’t believe they were.” 

“ You can go ! ” roared the lawyer, angrily, amidst 
the laughter that followed. And the witness stepped 
down. 

John Harrison was called to swear to the house 
having been broken into, and to identify some of the 
stolen property. He gave his evidence regarding 


THE TRIAL. 


99 


the medal with a reluctance which made it all the 
more damaging to poor Bent. 

The district attorney read aloud from the in- 
scription : ‘‘ ‘ For humane exertions in saving the life 
of Benton Barry' It seems you had, on a previous 
occasion, saved his life, and that the medal was 
awarded for that action ? " 

John gave a modest nod of assent. 

^‘And it was stolen from the house during the ab- 
sence of your father^s family last summer ? " 

“It got out of the house some way,^’ said John. 

“ And the boy whose life you had saved,” said the 
attorney, with strong emphasis, turning to give Bent 
a severe glance, “ and who had the medal in his pos- 
session when he was arrested for the burglary, never 
had it with your knowledge and consent ? ” 

John was obliged to answer no. 

“ That is all,” said the attorney. 

“ One moment, if you please,” said Mr. Sourby, as 
the witness was about to step down. 

Then followed questions which the prosecuting 
attorney objected to, and which were fought over 
for the next hour with great vehemence by both 
sides. Mr. Sourby put them in all sorts of ways, 
with great ingenuity and perseverance, and finally 
made it appear, by John’s answers, that he did not 
believe Bent stole the medal ; that he would have 
trusted him with it ; and that he believed he took 
possession of it in order to return it. 

Bent was filled with hope. Even his father felt 


100 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


encouraged. They saw now what an able and valu- 
able counsel the great Sourby was. 

But the appearance of the next witness dashed 
their hopes. It was Luke SnafFy, brought over from 
the jail in charge of an officer. With a vicious, de- 
fiant smile, he mounted the stand. 

Then Bent knew why the district attorney had 
been so willing that the trial should go on, and how 
it happened that he was so well informed regarding 
the details of the burglary. Luke had done what 
Bent would not do : he had confessed everything, 
and consented to give evidence against his com- 
panions. 

But now Sourby sprang to his feet, and a great 
battle ensued over the admission of this evidence. 
It lasted till the court adjourned, the judge reserv- 
ing his decision till the next morning. 

After the adjournment. Bent went tremblingly 
with his father to an interview with their lawyers 
in a private room. 

Sourby, who appeared so languid and weary in 
the morning, was now fresh and vigorous. “ Will 
Luke’s testimony be admitted ? ” Mr. Barry inquired. 

‘‘ Certainly,” the lawyer replied. “ The court can’t 
decide any differently. I was fighting merely to 
gain time. I must be prepared for the cross-exami- 
nation. That wretch will tell everything. And now, 
my boy, you must tell me everything.” 

Bent consented, and then and there related all 
that he knew regarding the burglary. 


THE TRIAL. 


101 


To his surprise, he slept well that night, and en- 
tered the court- room the next morning in a calmer 
state of mind than on the previous day. 

The decision of the court was as Sourby had pre- 
dicted, and Luke was put upon the stand. 

He told a pretty correct story, except that he was 
too much inclined to throw the blame upon his accom- 
plices, and to shield himself. 

He was cross-examined first by Seth and Will’s 
lawyer ; then Sourby took him in hand. 

You young fellows,” said the eminent counsel, 
beginning in the gentlest manner, entered on this 
unfortunate business rather as a matter of fun than 
anything else, I believe ? ” 

Yes, we thought we would have a little sport,” 
grinned Luke. 

And that’s the way you represented it to Benton 
Barry when you first proposed it to him, sitting on 
the fence in Watson’s woods ? ” 

Another admission from the grinning Snaffy. 

“ But after you got into the house you made a 
more serious thing of it than you at first intended ? ” 

Rather more serious.” 

You and Wing entered first, by the window ; 
then you say you let Cavoort in at the door. Which 
of you let Barry in ? ” 

I believe it was Cavoort.^^ 

“ You had been in the house then some time, 
hadn’t you ? ” 

Yes ; we had got about ready to leave.” 


102 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


“ But you stopped to drink something ; that was 
natural. Barry got a little gay, didn’t he ? ” 

He got to feeling a little better.” 

He hadn’t been feeling very well, then ? ” 

“ He’d been kind o’ blue.” 

Kind o’ blue ? ” repeated the lawyer, encourag- 
ingly. “ What was he blue about ? A little aston- 
ished, perhaps, to find what you had been doing in 
the house ? ” 

Yes, he was some astonished,” Luke answered, 
with another grin at the recollection. 

Felt sick, in short,” the wily lawyer went on, 
“ till you cheered him with a little liquor. Then, 
when he discovered the medal in your possession 
the next day, he was astonished again, wasn’t he ? 
A little angry, in fact, when you proposed to hammer 
it out and sell it ? ” 

He didn’t seem to like the idea.” 

You said, in your direct testimony, that he 
offered to take it as his share of the plunder. Now, 
didn’t he say that simply in order to get it into his 
possession ? ” 

I suppose he did.” 

“ And don’t you know that his sole object in 
getting control of it was to restore it to its rightful 
owner ? ” 

I don’t know that,” said Luke. 

Perhaps you haven’t thought much about it. 
But now I want you to recall an interview which 
took place between you and Barry and Cavoort the 


THE TRIAL. 


103 


night after the housebreaking. Do you remember 
that Barry came up to you and Cavoort while you 
were talking at Mrs. Cavoort’s gate ? 

Yes, I remember about that.” 

“And he told you, did he not, that he had just been 
to put the medal through the break in the library 
window, and that he had seen a man keeping watch 
there who frightened him ? ” 

“ He seemed a good deal frightened,” said Luke, 
evasively. 

“ And he told you what he went there for ? ” 

“ He got scared when he first saw the medal — ” 

Luke was trying to go back on his track, and 
make the matter appear worse for Bent, but Sourby 
stopped him. 

“ Never mind about that. Did not Barry say that 
he had been to put the medal you stole back into the 
house ? ” 

“ I believe he did.” 

“ You believe 1 ” said Sourby, sternly. “ Donft you 
know he did ? ” 

Luke twisted himself about, grew very red, and 
reluctantly admitted — quailing before the lawyer's 
terrible look — 

“ Yes, he did.” 

“ Why didn't you say so, then ? ” 

“ I d'n' know ! ” said Luke, quite losing his self- 
possession, and looking foolish and embarrassed. 

“ You do know, too ! ” thundered Sourby. “ All 
along you have been trying to make out as bad a 


104 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


story as possible against the boy you got into the 
scrape. Isn’t that the fact ? ” 

I d’n’ know ’s I have,” said Luke, trying hard to 
get back his vicious, defiant grin, which had deserted 
him. 

“ You d’n’ know ’s you have I ” repeated the lawyer, 
with overpowering sarcasm. Well, we have had 
enough of you ! ” and with a gesture of utter con- 
tempt, he motioned the witness to step aside. 

Luke obeyed, cringing like a whipped cur. An 
officer immediately took him in charge, and con- 
ducted him back to jail. 

Bent was in a glow of triumph. It seemed to him 
that his case actually stood better than it did before 
Luke gave his testimony. 


THE Defence and the verdict. 


105 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE DEFENCE AND THE VERDICT. 

Snaffy was the last witness for the government. 

The prosecuting attorney here rested his case, 
and Cody opened for Wing and Cavoort. 

He was followed by Barstow, who stated briefly 
the line of defence which had been decided upon in 
Bentos case. 

Even from the evidence produced here by the 
State, you must have been satisfied/’ he said to the 
jury, that if Barry was in any way concerned in 
the house-breaking, he was dragged into it igno- 
rantly and unwillingly. 

** It seems hardly necessary, after the shameful 
confession made here by the ringleader in the rob- 
bery, that we should take the trouble to put any 
witnesses of our own on the stand. Yet we shall 
show you, by Barry’s conduct after the burglary, 
that he could have had no motive for committing it ; 
that he was not a criminal, but, if anything, a dupe.” 

Witnesses were then produced to break down 
Luke’s character for veracity, and to show that both 
Seth and Will were in their beds, asleep, on the 
night of the house-breaking. 

Even Seth’s widowed mother — a poor old heart- 
broken creature — took the stand and swore, in a 
tremulous and scarcely audible voice, that she knew 


106 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


her son could not have been out of her house that 
night after half-past eight o’clock. 

How do you know ? ” the boy’s lawyer asked. 

Because he was in at half-past eight, and went 
to bed at nine ; and I was up all night with a dread- 
ful attack of rheumatiz, and I went to his room twice, 
thinking I would send him for the doctor, but he was 
so fast asleep I didn’t have the heart to wake him.” 

The district attorney was quite gentle in his cross- 
examination of the unhappy woman. There was no 
reason to apprehend that her testimony would have 
much weight with the jury, and even he could not 
but feel pity for the widowed mother giving false 
evidence to save her son. 

Will’s father swore roundly that he locked his son 
into his room on the night of the burgkry, and that 
he could not possibly have got out at either door or 
window. 

The prosecuting attorney, in the cross-examina- 
tion, led him on, step by step, to make out Will a 
sober and quiet boy, who rarely went out nights. 

“ Then why,” he suddenly asked, did you think 
it necessary to lock him into his chamber on the 
night of the 10th of August ? ” 

This was a poser. Poor Mr. Wing hid his trem- 
bling hands under his coat-tails, and opened and shut 
his mouth like a fish, without making a sound. 

That will do,” said the attorney, with a satisfied 
smile. 

Seth Cavoort was then put upon the stand, pris- 


THE DEFENCE AND THE VERDICT. 


107 


oners being permitted by our laws to testify in their 
own behalf, and courts and juries taking their evi- 
dence for what they consider it worth. 

Seth leaned on the rail before him, and doggedly 
denied that he had anything to do with the burglary, 
or that he knew anything about the carpet-bag found 
near the old bridge, and the plunder found under it. 

He was obliged to admit, however, that he was 
with Will at the time of WilPs capture ; and when 
cross-examined, he made sad work trying to explain 
why he was in the woods that night, and why he ran 
away. 

He was followed by Will, who also denied every- 
thing. 

Were you aware, said his lawyer, “ that your 
father locked you in your room on the night of the 
10th of August ? ” 

I didn’t know as he did that night, but I knew 
be did some nights,” replied Will. 

Do you know of any reason vjhy he sometimes 
locked you in ? ” 

Cody had had a brief whispered consultation with 
his client before putting him on the stand, and it 
was plain that an effort would now be made to bolster 
up the elder Wing’s shaky evidence on this point. 

“ Yes, I do,” said Will, boldly ; ’coz I git up and 
walk in my sleep sometimes.” 

Is that fact generally known ? ” 

I guess not, for my folks don’t like to speak of it; 
they think it might injure my prospects.” 


108 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


There was a pretty general laugh at this, and Will 
himself had to grin. The attempt to explain the 
inconsistency in his father’s evidence was almost too 
transparent, and nobody — certainly not Will him- 
self — had ever before suspected that he was a boy 
with “ prospects.” 

The district attorney made a great deal of fun in 
the cross-examination, especially when he urged 
Will to say what his prospects ” were, and how 
they could be injured. 

Well, for one thing,” replied Will, hard pressed, 
“ if I should want to get married, and the girls knew 
I walked in my sleep — ” 

The end of the sentence was lost amid the laugh- 
ter that convulsed the spectators and the jury, and 
shook even the sides of the court. 

Order being restored, Martha Barry was called to 
the stand. Bent had been laughing with the rest. 
But he did not feel like laughing now. 

Martha testified to finding the medal in his trunk, 
and to his having started out in order to return it to 
Jason Locke, the morning when he was arrested. 

Sourby continued : Then, when the officer brought 
him to your house, your brother wished you to take 
the medal, and you attempted to do so. Was it to 
help him steal it ? ” 

“ To help him steal it ! ” Martha repeated, indig- 
nantly, not quite seeing the lawyer’s drift. 

I think not,” said he, with a smile. Nobody 
suspects you of any such motive. But will you be 
kind enough to tell us wliat your motive was?” 


THE DEFENCE AND THE VERDICT. 


109 


* To keep that precious medal safe, and get it 
back to Mr. John Harrison, where I knew my brother 
wished it to go,” said Martha, her face beaming with 
all the purity of truth. 

Bent had been listening with intense interest to 
every word that fell from his sister^s lips, and when 
this answer came, he was blinded by a gust of tears. 

It had been a question whether Bent himself 
should go upon the stand j but his lawyers decided 
that he should not, to his immense relief and satis- 
faction. Martha^s evidence had produced a strong 
effect, and Sourby wished to have the case go to the 
jury as soon as possible. 

It had been all along a great disadvantage to Bent 
that he was tried at the same time with Wing and 
Cavoort ; and now their lawyer had to make a long 
argument in their behalf. 

Sourby followed in a brief but eloquent plea for 
his boy client. There could be no crime, he de- 
clared, without a motive; and no motive had been 
proved in Bent’s case. On the contrary, as every- 
thing goes to show, he had not at any time the slight- 
est intention of committing a burglary.” 

Bent knew well how far this was from being true ; 
yet he hung upon the great pleader’s words with 
trembling hope. 

He, at the worst, simply followed the lead of a 
vile companion, who persistently deceived him as to 
the object of the visit to the Harrison house. To 
Benton Barry it was merely a boyish freak. You, 


no 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


gentlemen of the jury, all have been boys your- 
selves, and some of you are fathers of boys ; you 
know their faults and their temptations ; and you 
are not going to judge one who does a foolish thing 
as you would judge a man.” 

He followed up this part of his plea until some of 
those fathers on the jury benches winked at him with 
moist eyes, and tears started down Mr. Barry’s cheeks. 

He then dwelt upon the boy’s astonishment and 
heart-sickness when, after being let into the house 
which he had no hand in breaking into^ he saw what 
had been done. Lastly, he drew a strong contrast 
between the self-confessed guilty wretch who would 
have pounded out the Humane Society’s medal and 
sold it, and the younger and weaker boy, who had 
so honestly, earnestly, even heroically, rescued it 
and attempted to return it. 

Such a boy, whose worst fault is a too sympa- 
thetic and impulsive nature, — whose misfortune is 
that he fell into bad company that deceived and mis- 
led him, — such a boy awaits your solemn verdict. 

And I confidently rely upon you,” said the great 
lawyer, in conclusion, not to blast his whole future 
life for the commission of a single fault ; not to plunge 
a most respectable family — a father and mother and 
sister — into life-long sorrow and grief and shame 
on his account ; but to restore him to them, and to 
society and a useful career, by meting out to him 
the justice and mercy which you would wish to have 
meted out to one of your sons in his place.” 


THE DEFENCE AND THE VERDICT. Ill 

It was a most effective plea, and if the case could 
have gone at once to the jury. Bent would have been 
safe. 

But now the district attorney rose, and in a cool, 
quiet, unimpassioned, convincing tone, closed the 
case for the government. 

He complimented his eminent legal brother in the 
highest terms for the eloquence to which they had 
just listened. But,^^ said he, “ romance is one 
thing, and hard facts are another. Unfortunately, 
we have to deal here with hard facts.'’ And he pro- 
ceeded to show what the facts in Bent’s case were. 

He joined the young house-breakers in the same 
spirit and with the same motives which actuated 
them. What if he did not intend that the boyish 
freak — as the learned counsel ingeniously terms 
it — should go as far as it did ? A similar excuse 
might be set up for almost every culprit brought to 
this bar. When evil-doers, especially the young, set 
out in the course of crime, they seldom intend to go 
as far as they do go. 

“ For that course is a downward course, and once 
launched in it, ’tis not easy to stop. They put from 
the shore with confidence and glee ; they are drawn 
gradually into the current ; and almost before they 
are aware, they are dashing in the rapids, and over- 
whelmed in the Niagara of crime. 

I don’t think any more of Luke Snafiy,” the 
attorney went on to say, than the other side does, 
or you probably do, gentlemen of the jury ; but his 


112 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


story is so far corroborated, that we are obliged to 
accept it as substantially true. 

^‘He says there were four engaged in the burg- 
lary ; and Jason Locke saw the four white sacks 
carried off by moonlight. The venerable Dr. Lom- 
bard had already seen, on the evening of the burg- 
lary, the Barry boy prowling in the rear of the house 
that was to be despoiled. 

Can you doubt that he was wilfully and know- 
ingly participating in the crime with which he here 
stands charged? — that, if he did not with his own 
hands break into the house, he aided and abetted the 
others by keeping watch while they broke in ? — or 
that he was one of the four who carried away the 
four white pillow-cases filled with plunder? 

“ Gentlemen, you cannot doubt ! You would like 
to doubt, — so would I! But it is my duty to pre- 
sent to you the facts as they are ; and yours to ren- 
der a verdict, not in obedience to your sympathies, 
but in strict accordance with those facts. 

You have heard a good deal about Barry’s aston- 
ishment and heart-sickness when he found amidst 
the plunder the very medal awarded John Harrison 
for saving his life. Well might he be astonished, — 
well might he be heart-sick ! ” 

And the attorney proceeded unsparingly to depict 
the baseness and ingratitude of the boy who had not 
only broken into the house of such a benefactor, but 
had actually assisted in carrying away, with other 
plunder, that sacred medal. 


THE DEFENCE AND THE VERDICT. 


113 


boyish freak ! he repeated, with rising vehe- 
mence. “ Gentlemen, that was a boyish freak of the 
kind we are here to punish ! If such freaks are to 
go unpunished, we may as well close the court at 
once and go home. 

But we are told that a boy who could commit 
such an act of horrible ingratitude as that got into 
bad company! Where, let me ask, could he find 
worse company than himself ? They were all bad 
company, and he was as bad as the rest.’’ 

Bent all this time sat in a stupor of conscious 
guilt and despair, seeing himself as he was shown 
by the merciless attorney. He no longer hoped for 
anything. 

He scarcely listened when the attorney went on 
to review the cases of Will and Seth, or when the 
judge gave his final instructions to the jury. 

They had risen from their seats. Judge and jury 
were solemnly standing. 

Then an oath of fidelity was administered to an 
officer, who took the twelve men. in charge and con- 
ducted them to the jury-room, where they were to 
make up their verdict. 

It was getting late ; there seemed to be no hope 
that they would soon agree, and in a little while the 
court adjourned. 

The spectators went out reluctantly. The lawyers 
took their hats. 

We may as well go home,” said Mr. Barry, from 
the depths of his utterly hopeless grief. 

8 


114 


THE SILTER MEDAL. 


Bent rose mechanically. To pass another night 
with the uncertainty of the verdict hanging over 
him seemed too dreadful. But he started to go. 
Just then Mr. Barstow, who had passed out through 
a side door, came walking quickly back. 

“ The jury have agreed,’’ he said. And presently 
in marched the twelve, still guarded by the officer. 
Bent sank down again, feeling very faint. 

Spectators came crowding back. The prisoners 
were brought in. The judge returned to his seat. 
Order was restored. 

Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury,” said 
the clerk, standing in his place before the judge’s 
long desk. 

The twelve rose to their feet, sokmn, silent, amid 
the hush that ensued. 

Have you agreed upon a verdict ? ” 

And the foreman answered, We have.’^ 

Seth Cavoort, William Wing, Benton Barry,” 
said the clerk, “ stand up ! ” 

The culprits obeyed. Again the clerk addressed 
the jury. 

What say you ? — is the defendant, Seth Cavoort, 
guilty, or not guilty ? ” 

<< Guilty.” 

“ Is the defendant, William Wing, guilty, or not 
guilty ? ” 

Guilty.” 

The intense silence was broken by a slight rus- 
tling movement of the crowd at each response. 


THE DEFENCE AND THE VERDICT. 


115 


It seemed to Bent that he was changing to stone 
as he stood awaiting liis own fate. 

Is the defendant, Benton Barry, guilty, or not 
guilty ? ” 

And the foreman responded, in the same firm, 
deliberate tone : 

Guilty.’^ 

So it was. Even the eloquence of Sourby had 
not availed to secure the boy^s acquittal. 


116 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


CHAPTER Xm. 

AFTERWARDS. 

It seemed hard, but it was just. None knew bet- 
ter than Benton Barry himself that he had broken 
wholesome and necessary laws, and that he deserved 
punishment. 

He seemed to be in a dream, and was quite sur- 
prised when, after a little talk with the lawyers, the 
court adjourned and he was still free. 

“ Come ! ” said his father, in a stifled voice. 

What is it ? ’’ said Benton, regaining his courage. 

I am not going home ? ” 

“ Yes,’^ said his father. 

I don’t see,” the boy faltered. “ The foreman 
said guilty!' 

Yes ; but your bail holds good until you have 
received the sentence of the court. That is deferred 
until to-morrow.” 

The words seemed wrung like drops of anguish 
from the father’s heart. He took his boy’s arm. In 
silence they walked out together. 

It was evening when they reached home. Martha, 
who preceded them by an hour or two, had told her 
mother that the case was looking brighter for Bent, 
and that the trial was near its close. 

Mrs. Barry, full of anxiety, yet not without hope, 


AFTERWARDS. 


117 


was on the watch, and at the approach of her hus- 
band and son, she flew to the door. 

Bent, who was foremost, met her with a more 
resolute and cheerful face than he had shown for a 
long while. The agony of doubt was past. The 
worst had come, and he had grown strong. The 
poor woman, deceived by his looks, cried out : 

It is all over ! ” 

“ Yes, mother,’’ said Bent, calmly but seriously. 

“ Oh, and you are acquitted ? ” And she tottered 
forward to throw herself on his neck. 

It was a terrible moment to Bent. He was begin- 
ning to know what it was to break a mother’s heart. 

Tell her, father,” he said, a great sob con- 
vulsing him. 

“ Not guilty ? My boy is not found guilty ? ” she 
cried out, wildly. 

She did not hear the answer. But she saw her 
husband’s face, which told her all. 

They carried her into the house. Bent thought 
at first the news had killed her ; but slowly life and 
suffering came back. 

Her boy had come home to pass one more night 
with her, to sleep once more on his old bed, before 
receiving the sentence of a felon, and meeting a 
felon’s doom. 

Then Benton knew, as he had never known before, 
what a home it was whose blessings he had thrown 
away, and what deep and loving hearts were those 
his reckless misdeeds had crushed. 


118 


THE SILVER MEDaL. 


“ Why didn’t I see how it was ? Why didn’t 1 
stop to think ? ” he said to himself, in the loneliness 
of his room, as he lay awake that night. 

There had been some talk of appealing his case, 
in the hope that he might have another trial, and be 
acquitted. But Bent himself said “ No.” The ver- 
dict rendered was a just verdict, and his father had 
already spent more money in trying to get him off 
than the family could afford. 

So he passed his last night under the old roof, and 
sat at his mother’s table for the last time, for he 
knew not how long. 

In the morning, when the hour came for him to 
depart, it seemed as if his mother could never let 
him go. She clung to him with passionate love and 
sorrow. She repeated over and over her words of 
affectionate counsel. She implored him to remem- 
ber his good resolutions, and take the lesson of his 
punishment in a humble and true spirit. 

For if I live to see you come home and begin 
life anew, with a new heart, we shall feel that even 
this sorrow has not been without its blessing.” 

Then she prayed with him, and afterwards re- 
mained still on her knees when his father took him 
away. 

In court that morning there was more talk by the 
lawyers, Mr. Barstow making a strong plea for miti- 
gation of sentence in Bent’s case. 

The judge was himself inclined to mercy. But 
the offence was a grave one — breaking and enter- 


AFTERWARDS. 


119 


ing a dwelling-house in the night-time, with felo- 
nious intent, which is burglary. The bo3^s had been 
duly convicted, and the punishment required by law 
was imprisonment in the state prison. 

Cavoort and Wing were first sentenced to two 
years each. 

Then the clerk addressed Bent, who stood to re- 
ceive his doom. 

Benton Barry, hearken to the sentence the court 
has awarded against you. The court having duly 
considered your offence, orders that you be pun- 
ished therefor by imprisonment for the term of one 
year, one day of which term is to be solitary im- 
prisonment, the residue thereof to be confinement 
at hard labor ; that the sentence be executed upon 
you in and within the precincts of the state prison 
at Charlestown, in our county of Middlesex; and 
that you stand committed to the common jail until 
you shall be removed to the state prison, in execu- 
tion of your sentence.’^ 

As one year was the shortest term in the state 
prison which the law allowed, and as Bent had 
expected the same punishment as that awarded to 
Seth and Will, he felt relieved and grateful. 

It was hard enough at the best. Bent was im- 
mediately taken in charge by an officer, and after 
brief leave-takings with his father and two or three 
friends, he was conveyed to the county jail with 
Seth and Will. There was no longer any distinction 
made in his favor. 


120 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


From the jail he was taken in a close wagon, with 
half a dozen other prisoners, and carried over to the 
state prison. 

There he was washed and clipped, and put into 
the prison uniform, and locked up in a cell which 
was to be his lonely home for one year, and a place 
of such bitter memories, longings, and regrets, as 
you, my boy, in the freedom of your life, surrounded 
by relatives and friends, can hardly imagine if you 
would. 

After his first day of solitude. Bent was taken out 
and drilled to march and keep step in a file of silent 
felons; then set to learning a trade in a work-shop 
full of criminals, under the eye of an overseer, where 
to speak, or even to look around at one’s fellows, was 
a punishable offence. 

After working all day in utter silence, the gang 
was marched back in single file at night — trampj 
tramp — to the kitchen-window, where each man 
received in a pewter dish the coarse fare of his sup- 
per, which he carried to his cell, and ate in solitude 
behind the iron grating of his bolted door. 

How often, in those lonely hours, munching his 
bread and molasses or boiled beef and potatoes, Bent 
thought of his mother’s table, and the sweet privi- 
leges he had thrown away ! 

Sundays he had for reading and for writing let- 
ters. Never a week passed without bringing one 
letter at least from his mother and sister, while he, 
who had always before hated the sight of pen and 


AFTERWARDS. 


121 


paper, now took comfort in writing regularly to 
them. 

He also attended services in the chapel on Sun- 
day, where one day he saw an old acquaintance. It 
was Luke Snaffy, also in the prison uniform, with 
cropped hair. 

Though Luke had made his confession and given 
evidence against his companions, in the hope of re- 
ceiving favor, no favor had been promised him. Put 
on trial, he had been convicted, and sentenced to 
three years of hard labor. 

Of course Bent had no opportunity to speak with 
his former companions, although Seth and Will were 
in the same work-shop with himself ; nor had he any 
wish ever to speak with them again. 

Occasionally the chaplain of the prison visited 
him, or the warden talked with him ; and now came 
a never-to-be-forgotten day. 

He was taken from the work-shop, and told to 
wash himself ; then conducted to the prison recep- 
tion-room, where he was met by his mother and 
Martha. 

I fear it was an occasion of more sorrow than joy 
to them all. And yet there was comfort in the inter- 
view. They brought him books and flowers, and 
news of the outside world ; and they found him 
already looking forVvard to beginning a new life 
after his release. 

He had been told that by good behavior he could 
shorten the term of his imprisonment one day for 


122 


THE SILVER MEDAL. 


every month. That would be twelve days taken oflT 
from his year. 

It did not seem much at first. But towards the 
close, these twelve days loomed up like a little eter' 
nity. How could he have endured to pass them in 
prison ? With what gratitude and joy he accepted 
the respite which the warden’s recommendation to 
the Governor and Council brought to him at last ! 

He had taken the lesson of his punishment in the 
right spirit; he had remembered his good resolu- 
tions and the tearful entreaties of his mother ; and 
when restored to his home and to her it was soon 
found that the change wrought in him was worth all 
it had cost. 

The shadow he had brought upon his youth still 
hangs over him ; but it grows lighter as the years 
go by and he leaves the dreadful past farther and 
farther behind him. 

A little while ago he visited his sister (who, the 
reader may be interested to know, is now the wife 
of John Harrison), and saw the silver medal on the 
parlor table, where she had placed it. 

She started to put it out of his sight, but he 
stopped her. “ Why shouldn’t I bear the sight of 
it,” he said, “ since I think of it so often ? And why 
shouldn’t I bear to be reminded how I was twice 
saved? — once from drowning, and again from some- 
thing worse than all the troubles I went through 1 ” 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


CHAPTER I. 

WADLEY TODDLEBY’S MISTAKE. 

O LD Mr. and Mrs. Toddleb}^ of the County of 
Worcester, in the State of Massachusetts, had 
never in their lives been fifty miles from home, when 
the great journey was undertaken of which I am 
about to write a history. Their eldest son, Joseph 
P. Toddleby, Esq., had been fifteen years settled in 
Brockport, Monroe County, State of New York, and 
they were now for the first time going to visit him. 

Great were the preparations for that journey. 
They were to take with them their youngest son, 
Wadley, and leave the house and farm in the charge 
of their daughter ’Lizbeth, and John Blake, the hired 
man, who, being fond of each other^s society, did not 
raise the slightest objection to the arrangement. 

Among the indispensable preliminaries to the un- 
dertaking was the writing of a letter to Joseph, to 
let him know they were coming. The letter was 
penned by ^Lizbeth, and Wadley carried it to the 

123 


124 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


post-office. As there were no stamps in the house, 
his mother gave him three cents for the postage. 
On his way home he went through the woods, and 
filled his pockets with walnuts. Returning, tlie coat 
he wore was hung up, and not taken down again till 
the day they were to start. 

This cut will be jest the thing for you to wear 
on the journey,^’ said his mother. Only brush it 
up a little, and — The land ! what have you got in 
the pockets ? ” 

^‘Nothin’, only nuts and things,’^ said Wadley. 

A pan was brought, and the nuts and things were 
emptied into it. 

“ Why, my son, where did ye git these three 
cents ? ” 

By-y-y I said Wadley in amazement, I didn’t 
know them three cents was there ! I d’n’ know 
where they come from more ’n nothin’ ! ” 

Now pennies are not so common in the Toddleby 
family as to be seen lying around loose, or to be 
found in pockets where their presence cannot be 
accounted for. The three, therefore, that turned up 
with the walnuts and marbles and bullets and spools 
which Mrs. Toddleby emptied into the pan remained 
a profound mystery, exciting all sorts of conjectures 
with regard to their origin, until suddenly Wadley, 
opening his eyes with consternation, exclaimed, “ I 
SNUM ! ” 

What, my son? But don’t say you snum agin.” 

** You give me three cents to pay the postage on 


WADLEY TODDLEBY’S MISTAKE. 


125 


that letter ; and I snum if I didn^t forgit all about it 
till this minute ! 

Now I want to know if you did I ’’ exclaimed 
Mrs. Toddleby, who could with diflSculty be brought 
to think that Wadley ever did anything he could be 
reasonably blamed for. How did you happen to ? ” 
‘‘ You’re a pretty fellow to send on an errand ! ” 
said ’Lizbeth. “ The letter might just as well not 
have been written. Instead of going to Joseph, it ’ll 
go to the dead-letter office, if it wasn’t prepaid.” 

“ What’s that ? what’s that ? ” cried Mr. Toddleby, 
coming into the house. “ This ’s a pretty fix I ” when 
the matter was explained to him. “ Here we’ve 
made all arrangements to go, and they hain’t got 
word on ’t ! I never see sich a stupid head as you 
be ! ” seizing the boy by the shoulder. 

He ain’t so very much to blame,” interposed 
Mrs. Toddleby. We’re all liable to forgit some- 
times. There, don’t, father ! ” 

I ain’t shakin’ him none to hurt, only to wake 
him up a little. He seems more ’n half asleep, ’times. 
Didn’t yer mother tell ye over ’n’ over agin not to 
forgit to pay the postage ? ” 

Yes — but — ” began Wadley. 

I suppose it slipped his mind,” said his mother. 
“ Things sometimes slip your mind, father, careful as 
you be.” 

Never anything as important as that. What are 
we to do ? For you yourself said you wouldn’t on 
no account start off on sich a journey without writin’ 


126 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


aforeband, so ’s to be sure Joseph’s folks would know 
when to expect us, and be to hum, say nothin’ ’bout 
bein’ prepared for comp’ny.” 

The land ! ” said Mrs. Toddleby, turning away 
with a deprecating air, 1 don’t imagine it ’ll make a 
grain o’ difference ; though of course I’d ruther they’d 
have got the letter. But we’ll take it along with us, 
and tell how it was, and that ’ll excuse us, and we’ll 
have a good laugh over Wadley’s mistake. I guess 
the’ ain’t no danger but what they ’ll be to hum, 
fast enough. It ’ll be jest as well to take ’em by 
surprise.” 

‘‘ But you know how you always hate to have any- 
body come here a-visitin’, ’thout your knowin’ it, so 
you can have somethin’ cooked for ’em, and the house 
slicked up a little.” 

“ Oh, we’re Joseph’s own folks, so he won’t mind.” 

It was accordingly determined that they should 
make the journey as if nothing had happened ; 
although Mr. Toddleby declared that a blunder at 
the outset was a bad omen, and that he foresaw that 
they were going to have trouble. 

If it had been my blunder, instead of Wadley’s,” 
’Lizbeth said confidentially to John Blake, the hired 
man, “ I should never have heard the last of it ; and 
ma would have been so worked up by it, I verily 
believe she’d have stayed at home.” 

They were to go by the afternoon train, and soon 
after dinner John Blake brought the old one-horse 
wagon to the door. 


WADLEY TODDLEBY’S MISTAKE. 


121 


The trunk which Mrs. Toddleby had been three 
days packing was locked and strapped ; the new 
travelling-bag, bought expressly for the journey, 
was also got ready ; and Mrs. Toddleby, in her slate- 
colored drawn-silk bonnet, pongee dress, and black 
cloth cloak, with her red cashmere shawl on her 
arm and her black lace veil on her head, and Mr. 
Toddleby in his big snulf-colored great-coat and tall 
black hat, and Wadley in his little snuff-colored 
great-coat and tall black hat, — an exact copy of his 
father in every particular, — kissed in succession 
the cheerful ’Lizbeth, and climbed up into the high 
one-horse wagon. 

‘‘ Be sure and take good care of everything,’’ said 
Mrs. Toddleby, arranging her pongee. And don’t 
forgit what I told you about — ” this thing and that 
thing, repeating for the twentieth time her parting 
injunctions. 

Oh, I’ll see to everything ; and be sure to take 
good care of yourselves,” said ’Lizbeth. “ Good-bye.” 

There’s one thing, now 1 ” exclaimed Mrs. Tod- 
dleby, making a snatch at the reins as John Blake 
was driving off. Wait a minute! that brine, — if 
you think it wants changin’ — ” 

Come, we can’t stop to talk brine now,” cried 
Mr. Toddleby, who was getting nervous about the 
train. Them steam-cars don’t stop for nobody ; 
and we shall haf to hurry, or git left.” 

Never mind,” said Mrs. Toddleby over her shoul- 
der. I’ll tell Blake about the brine. Don’t fail to 


128 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


write ! — raising her voice as away they went. 
“ And look out for fires ! ! ’' — flinging back a final 
scream from under her black lace veil. 

Mr. Toddleby gave Blake his charges about the 
farm and stock as they rode to the depot, which they 
reached an hour before the cars were due, notwith- 
standing his fear of being too late for them. The 
trunk was checked, the tickets bought, and after 
waiting about six hours, — which appeared to be 
only one hour by the clock, — they were snatched 
up by the thundering train. 


MRS. TODDLEBY JUST STEPS OUT. 


129 


CHAPTER IL 

MRS. TODDLEBY JUST STEPS OUT. 

They rode all night, and reached Rochester the 
next morning a little before ten o’clock. Their sup- 
per and breakfast they had taken from the travelling- 
bag ; but now Mrs. Toddleby said she felt the need 
of a cup of tea. 

“ A cup o’ tea ’ll do you good, too, father. And I 
guess Wadley better have a cup ; he ain’t in the 
habit on ’t,” turning to a lady whose acquaintance 
she had made in the car ; “ I never brought up none 
of my children to drink anything but cold water, or 
maybe a tumbler o’ milk. But the poor boy had a 
dreadful hard time ridin’ all night.” 

I sh’d think ’twas me that had the hard time,” 
said Mr. Toddleby, “ settin’ up, and holdin’ that boy’s 
head on my shoulder, while he slep’ like a top.” 

“ I’m sure I spelled ye, and hild him part of the 
time. Fathers never know what it is to have the 
care o’ childern,” (Mrs. Toddleby turned once more 
to her travelling acquaintance,) “ do you think they 
do, ma’am ? When they begin to haf to do what 
mothers haf to do from the time they be mothers, 
they think it’s a terrible hardship. Poor boy, he 
ain’t a bit stubbid ! Hadn’t you better go ’th yer 
pa, Wadley, and have a cup? jest to warm yer 
stomach. Then arter you git back. I’ll go ; for we 
9 


130 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


don’t want to leave our things here, nor lose our 
seats.” 

I don’t want no cup o’ tea,” said Wadley ; “ but 
I do want to go and see the falls ; ” which he had 
had an exciting glimpse of as the train crossed the 
Genesee River. 

‘‘ The’ won’t be no time to go sight-seein’ ’bout 
the falls,” said Mr. Toddleby, nervously. 

it Wh}", yis ; it’s only a few steps back there,” said 
Mrs. Toddleby. ‘‘ It needn’t take ye but a minute ; 
and the train stops half an hour, the man said.” 

‘‘ Wal, we’ll see how long it takes to git the cup o’ 
tea,” Mr. Toddleby replied. I’ll bring a cup to you 
here in the car, if I can ; that ’ll be the best way.” 

The train was standing in the great depot, which 
was full of hack-drivers, passengers, baggage-men, 
and ringing and whistling locomotives running up 
and down, for no earthly purpose, as Mrs. Toddleby 
could see, unless it were for air and exercise. As 
her eyes followed Wadley and his father entering 
the noisy crowd, she called after them, Remember 
which train it is ! and don’t forgit ; it’s the last car 
but one ! ” 

Having watched them until they entered the door 
of the restaurant, she returned to her seat. 

“ Your husband has gone out too, to git a cup o’ 
tea, hain’t he ? ” she said to her new acquaintance. 

“ No ; he has just run up street on business.” 

Oh ! What is his business, if I may ask ? ” 

“ He’s in the hide and leather business ; he has a 
large store in Albany ; he buys for the firm.” 


MRS. TODDLEBY JUST STEPS OUT. 


131 


Indeed ! Want to know I Is ^t a good business ? ” 
Well, yes, pretty good.^^ 

I see you dress pretty well,’^ remarked Mrs. 
Toddleby. “ Your business ought to be purty good 
to afford sich a shawl as you’ve got on. Though I 
don’t know as it’s any better quality than this o’ 
mine, that I’ve had now nigh on to twenty year. 
This black lace-veil I’ve had thirty year this last 
August. They’re presents from my brother, that 
used to go to sea. I ’xpect they’ll last me my life- 
time, and when I die I shall give one on ’em to 
’Lizbeth, and t’other to Joseph’s wife, — I do’no’ 
which, — without Wadley sh’d happen to be married. 
Joseph’s wife I’ve never seen ; but I ’xpect she 
comes from a purty nice family. They’ve got con- 
nections livin’ here in Rochester, I believe, but I 
sh’d no sooner think o’ lookin’ on ’em up than I 
should o’ findin’ a needle in a hay-mow. My son 
come out West here to keep school, and married his 
wife in — The land I ” suddenly exclaimed Mrs. 
Toddleby, as a train came rushing in between the 
one she was on and the restaurant, and stopped. 

My husband ’ll think that’s his train, sure as the 
world ! And if he once gits turned round a little, 
he’s a dre’ful narvous man ! I guess I’ll jest step 
and speak to him, if you’ll take charge o’ my shawl, 
and see ’t nobody gits that bag under the seat, nor 
gits our seats.” 

The lady obligingly consented ; and Mrs. Tod- 
dleby, getting off the train, and climbing over the 


132 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


other one, went elbowing her way through the crowd 
of newly-arrived passengers to the restaurant. 

Dear me ! my veil ! I wish Pd left that with my 
shawl ! she exclaimed ; “ for it^s about as much as 
a person’s life is wuth to squeeze through a jam like 
this ’ere ! ” 

At last she entered the saloon, and the politest of 
polite waiters came bowing towards her, in a white 
apron, and placed a chair for her at a table. 

Sit here, if you please, ma’am,” he said, with 
charming suavity. 

Thank ye ; I guess I won’t set down ; Pm jest 
lookin’ for my husband and son.” And she stared 
all about the room. “ Have you seen a man in a 
snuff-colored gre’t-cut, and a boy with him in a snuff- 
colored gre’t-cut ? The land ! ” said she, as the 
waiter slammed back the chair and turned on his 
heel ; “ I thought he was a real nice man, but seems 
he was perlite only ’cause he ’xpected to git my 
mone3\ Where under the sun can they be?” 

She began to grow anxious ; and approaching 
another waiter, also in a white apron, and also ready 
with his hand on the back of a chair, she said: 
'‘Have you seen a man in a snuff-colored gre’t-cut, 
and a boy with him in jest sich another snuff- 
colored — ” 

The waiter was off, without deigning so much as 
a word in reply, and poor Mrs. Toddleby stood con- 
founded. 

Seeing a man getting up from one of the tables, 


MRS. TODDLEBY JUST STEPS OUT. 


133 


she began, Have you seen — But he did not ^ 
hear her. She then rushed at a gentleman picking 
his teeth. “ Have you seen — ” 

No, ma’am, I have not seen ; ” and without wait- 
ing to hear the remainder of her question, he walked 
away. 

“ They must ’a’ got their cup o’ tea and gone to 
look at the falls,” then said Mrs. Toddleby. And 
out of the depot she ran, and back along the track, 
looking more and more anxiously for her husband 
and son. There were the falls, pouring over the 
table of rock just below the railroad bridge ; but 
there was no Wadley, and no Wadley’s pa, looking 
at them. 

Just then an engine came clanging and snorting 
down the track ; and Mrs. Toddleby had no sooner 
got off from that on another, than a train of two cars 
came backing up on that ; and between the two she 
barely escaped being run over. She was quite wild 
with fright by the time she reached the platform of 
the depot ; when, seeing a train starting off, and 
thinking it was her own, she set off in pursuit of it, 
screaming, Stop, stop ! stop them cars ! ” and ges- 
ticulating frantically. 

She ran directly in the face of a black man, stag- 
gering under the burden of an immense trunk. 
Down he went with it, man and trunk rolling from 
the platform. The excellent Mrs. Toddleby would 
have stopped to apologize and help him up, but the 
train was going, and away she darted, working her 


134 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


way through the crowd in an almost miraculous 
manner. 

“ Here’s your veil; ma’am ! ” shouted a brakeman 
after her. 

‘‘ Oh; thank you ! ” snatching it. “ Won’t some- 
body stop the cars ? ” 

They ain’t going yet;” said the brakeman. 

Mrs. Toddleby did not know what he could mean 
by that, when she could see them going ; and on she 
ran. To her great joy, they slackened their speed, 
and finally stopped as if to take her on ; but just as 
she was going to embark, they began to back down 
towards the depot. Not perceiving that they had 
run out merely to get on another track, but thinking 
they were going back for her, she began to beckon 
and scream, ‘‘ Here I be ! ye needn’t go a bit further, 
if you’ve only got my husband and Wadley aboard ! ” 

The train did not heed her at all, but ran past her, 
back into the depot. Fearing it might start again 
immediately, she followed it in as fast as she had fol- 
lowed it out, and discovered, on reaching it, that it 
wasn’t her train. Instead of being the second from 
the platform, it was the third. 

“ Dear me ! what a fright I’ve had ! ” she gasped 
out, climbing over the first train again, and looking 
back for her husband and son. They ’re mos’ likely 
in the car^by this time. If they be, I guess the’ 
won’t neither of us leave it agin till we git safe to 
Brockport. It’s the last car but one ; I’m glad I 
thought o’ that.” 


MRS. TODDLEBY JUST STEPS OUT. 


135 


She did not know that the locomotive she saw 
backing up a couple of cars on the bridge had added 
a car to her train ; so that her car, instead of being 
the last but one, was now the last but two. She 
accordingly pushed through the car she was looking 
for, and entered the next one. 

“ The fourth and fifth seats from the forward door, 
on the left-hand side,’’ she repeated to herself. But 
both those seats were occupied by strangers ; and 
the third seat, in which she expected to find the lady 
holding her shawl, was vacant. 

Consternation seized Mrs. Toddleby. She ran 
through the car to the rear, to make sure that it was 
next to the last one, then flew back again, and asked 
the strangers occupying the fourth seat if there was 
a travelling-bag under it. There was none ; and to 
satisfy her, they got up and let her look. 

“ These don’t look like our seats, either ! ” she 
exclaimed. This don’t look like the train.” She 
flew into the next car ; but the obliging lady who 
had charge of her shawl had disappeared ; and, see- 
ing neither lady nor shawl, Mrs. Toddleby did not 
know where she was. “ It must be the other train ! ” 
And she clambered to that she had been chasing. 


136 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MAN WITH THE CUP OF TEA. 

In the mean time Mr. Toddleby and young Tod- 
dleby had entered the saloon where the polite wait- 
ers were ; and one of them had set chairs for them, in 
his most magnificently civil manner, inclining his ear 
for their orders ; and Mr. Toddleby, delighted at the 
respect shown him, had said, A cup of tea, sir, if 
you please.’^ 

“ What else ? 

Wal, nothin’, I guess. My son here thinks he 
don’t care for none ; if he does, I can give him a sip 
o’ mine.” 

You can’t get a cup of tea here,” said the waiter, 
his suavity changing to ice. 

“ Dear me ! Why, I thought — Can’t git a cup o’ 
tea?” stammered Mr. Toddleby, amazed by the trans- 
formation, getting up so suddenly that he knocked 
his chair over and stepped in his hat, which he had 
placed on the floor. Where — where can I — ” 

Go out of that door, down to the end of the 
depot, and you’ll find a place where you can stand 
and get a cup of tea.” 

And back went the chairs to their places, while 
Mr. Toddleby, stunned and mortified, feeling that he 
had committed some monstrous breach of decorum, 
marched away, pressing his hat into shape, and fob 


THE MAN WITH THE CUP OF TEA. 


137 


lowed by the younger Toddleby. They had but just 
gone out, when Mrs. Toddleby came in, as we have 
seen, in search of them. 

Down at the end of the depot they found not only 
a good cup of tea, but a young waitress of genuine 
politeness, who, seeing what an honest old gentle- 
man her customer was, readily consented to let him 
carry a cup of tea to his wife in the cars. 

And now, while Mrs. Toddleby was in frantic pur- 
suit of him, behold him also in pursuit of her, with 
a cup and saucer in his hand. As she had foreseen, 
he got upon the train nearest the platform, jostled 
by embarking and disembarking passengers, and 
spilling the tea. Then, as she had anticipated, not 
finding her, he became alarmed. 

This ain’t the car, pa,” said Wadley. 

No, I believe ’t ain’t ! But what’s become on’t ? 
Where’s the car we come in ? ” he called out ex- 
citedly. ’Twas the last but one.” 

“ They’ve been taking off or putting on cars since 
we came in,” said a gentleman. “ You’d better 
walk through the train, if you want to find a par- 
ticular one ; and hurry, for it’ll be starting in a few 
minutes.” 

So Mr. Toddleby hurried, striding through the 
cars in his snuff-colored great-coat, carrying his cup 
of tea at arm’s length, and followed by young Tod- 
dleby in his snuff-colored great-coat; his mind dis- 
tracted between the anxious pursuit of Mrs. Tod- 
dleby and the fear of losing Master Toddleby in the 


138 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


crowd, not to speak of the constant care required to 
keep the cup in the saucer and the tea in the cup. 

Having thus passed from end to end of the train 
without finding the slate-colored bonnet, the Tod- 
dleby brain was in a state of panic. He strode up 
and down, brandishing the tea, dragging Wadley 
after him, and demanding, in furious excitement. 
Has anybody seen my wife ? Do, somebody, for 
massy sake, tell me where I be and which is my 
car ? ” 

Where do you wish to go ? asked some one. 
Toddleby told him. “ You are in the wrong train, 
sir. This is the Buffalo train.^^ 

Which is my train ? ” 

I donT know ; you’ll have to inquire.” 

Toddleby did inquire, but nobody heeded his ques- 
tions, or could answer them, until a lady called out, 
in passing him : “ That is your train, Mr. Toddleby ; 
the Niagara Falls train.” 

He was too much excited to thank or even recog- 
nize her, but rushed on with Wadley and the tea, 
and went from end to end of that train also, with- 
out finding Mrs. Toddleby. Arrived at the end of 
the rear car, and seeing a disconnected car farther 
down the track, he had just wit enough left to re- 
member that somebody had said something about 
taking ofi* cars from some train ; and thinking that 
must be the one he was in search of, he made a 
desperate plunge for it, preceded by the cup of tea 
and followed by Wadley. He entered it, and found 


THE MAN WITH THE CUP OP TEA. 


139 


nobody in it but a coatless individual, turning over 
seats and sweeping. 

“ Look here, you ! ” cried Toddleby, rushing for- 
ward in the cloud of dust, and thrusting the teacup 
in the man’s face, do you know anything about 
these ’ere cars?” 

“ Wal, I reckon I do ! ” replied the coatless indi- 
vidual, leaning on his broom. What cars do you 
want to know about?” 

The car that my wife ’s in, going to Brockport, 
on the Lockport and Niagry Falls Road.” 

‘^Wal!” said the man, moving to the door, and 
pointing to the train which father and son had just 
left, “ them’s all the Lockport and Niagry Falls cars 
I know anything about, and there won’t be no more 
till twelve o’clock.” 

But she ain’t on them I ” groaned Toddleby. 
Ain’t there no other Brockport cars?” 

Nary one.” 

Oh ! ” suddenly screamed Wadley, “ there’s ma, 
now I ” 

It was the maternal Toddleby indeed, but in what 
a situation ! Whilst exploring the train she had pre- 
viously been chasing, she discovered it to be in mo- 
tion, and ran out on a platform. “ Wait ! wait ! ” she 
shrieked, “ let me git off ! ” And Toddleby, seeing 
her borne helplessly past him, raised his voice also. 
Hold on ! hold on ! you ’re carrying off my wife ! ” 

As the train did not hold on, and as Mrs. Toddleby 
could not jump, Mr. Toddleby ran after her ; and it 


140 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


was an afiecting sight to see her extending implor- 
ing hands to him from the car platform, and him ex- 
tending imploring hands to her (cup and saucer in 
one of them) from the ground, commanding the train 
to stop in one breath, and in the next ordering her 
to jump, he would catch her. At last with his dis- 
engaged hand he seized one of hers ; then she ven- 
tured, — and Mr. Toddleby, Mrs. Toddleby, and cup 
and saucer, with what was left of their contents, 
went to the ground together. 


MRS. TODDLEBY’S EXPLOIT. 


141 


CHAPTEK lY. 

MRS. TODDLEBY’S EXPLOIT. 

Fortunately nobody was hurt; not even the 
crockery was broken ; and the pair, gathering them- 
selves up, looked at each other. 

See, ma!’’ said Wadley; ^'the train was only 
backin’ down, to hitch on to them other cars I Ye 
needn’t ’a’ been scaret.” 

Mrs. Toddleby did not seem to appreciate the 
consolatory nature of this information, but looked 
eagerly at her husband. 

“ Where’ve you been all this time ? ” 

“I’ve been hunting for you, with this ’ere cup o’ 
tea I’ve spilt over everything ! Where’ve you 
been ? ” 

“ I’ve been hunting for you. And now I’m look- 
ing for our train.” 

“ That’s our train, they all tell me ; and what 
under heavens you ever left it for, I can’t con- 
saive I” 

“ The land I you sure ? Then we’ve been robbed ! ” 
“ Robbed ! ” ejaculated Toddleby ; “ how so ? ” 

“ Why, I’d no sooner stepped out of our car, jest 
to say to you the train that come in last wa’n’t our’^ 
than that dre’ful desaitful woman — ” 

“ What dre’ful desaitful woman ? ” 

“ Her we got acquainted with. I left my shawl 


142 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


in her charge, and now she and shawl and bag ’s 
gone together ! ” 

Can’t be ! ” said Toddleby, as they climbed up 
on the right train at last ; and only on making an 
examination could he be convinced. Strange you 
would trust your property in the hands of sich an 
entire stranger ! ” 

But who’d have thought ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Tod- 
dleby. “ I was sorry one while I didn’t leave my 
veil with her too; but I’m glad enough now I didn’t.” 

“ Where is your veil ? ” 

Mrs. Toddleby felt for it on her bonnet. 

I declare ! if I hain’t lost that too ! I never see 
the beat on’t ! But I ain’t goin’ to give up so I I’ll 
find either the veil, or that woman with my shawl 
and bag, or both. Have you seen, any of you,” — 
addressing the passengers, — “that woman in the 
Injy shawl, with a cream-colored middle and a deep 
figgered border — ” 

“ The woman, or the shawl ? ” asked one. 

“ She had a rooster’s wing in her bunnet, or a 
duck’s wing, or a goose’s wing, or some kind o’ 
wing,” pursued Mrs. Toddleby, without heeding the 
interruption ; “ and a monstrous big waterfall.” 

“ I’ve seen a monstrous big waterfall.” 

“ Where ? which way did it go ? ” 

“ Back here below the railroad bridge ; and it 
seemed to be going down stream,” replied the cruel 
trifler. 

“ He means the Genesee Falls,” grinned Wadley. 


MRS. TODDLEBY’S EXPLOIT. 


143 


You may as well give her up/’ said Toddleby ; 
“ you never ’ll see woman or shawl agin.” 

Why, pa,” said Wadley, “ that was the woman 
that spoke to you and told you which our train was.” 

“ Be ye sure ? ” 

Yes; anyhow she was the one set behind us and 
ma talked to so much, and that had the rooster’s 
wing on her bonnet.” 

Which way did she go ? I’ll find her 1 ” said 
Mrs. Toddleby. “ Come, sonny, and show me.” 

“ No, no ! we shall lose Wadley next,” cried the 
boy’s father. Wadley, you set here, and don’t 
you move from this ’ere seat on no account, till we 
come back. Do you hear?” 

Yeas,” said Wadley, laying hold of the arm of 
the seat to anchor himself securely against the tides 
of fate. 

“ How long ’fore the train starts?” Toddleby asked 
of a man passing the bell-cord through the rings into 
the next car. 

In five minutes.” 

Bless me ! I sha’n’t have time to carry back 
this cup ’n’ sasser ! ” 

Yis, ye will ; be spry, and I’ll be looking for that 
woman. Which way did she go ? ” 

She was goin’ along the platform when she spoke 
to me. I remember now, it must have been her, for 
she called me Mr. Toddleby.” 

^^And didn’t ye see my shawl on her arm ? nor the 
bag in her hand ? ” 


144 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


^‘No, I wasn’t noticin^ Pll carry the cup ^n‘ 
sasser, and we’ll meet here. Don’t be late and git 
left now, woman or no woman.” 

So saying, Toddleby — known everywhere by this 
time as the man with the cup o’ tea ” — hurried to 
the refreshment stand, and paid for the fluid he had 
had the satisfaction of carrying about with him so 
long, and finally spilling ; while Mrs. Toddleby went 
hunting up and down where she had run before, 
asking everybody, Has anybody seen a black lace 
veil ? or has anybody seen a woman in a Injy shawl 
with a cream-colored middle and a deep figgered 
border, and a rooster’s wing stuck in her bunnet, 
and carrying a red cashmere long-shawl, with a 
pa’m-leaf border and a big pa’m-leaf in the corner, 
and a patent-leather carpet-bag in her hands ? ” 

Nobody confessed to having seen such a phenome- 
non ; but suddenly Mrs. Toddleby herself saw some- 
thing which paid her well for her trouble. It was a 
lady’s arm disappearing from a car-window, after 
dropping out a penny to an apple-boy. It was the 
arm of the woman in the Injy shawl with the cream- 
colored middle, and the other things. Mrs. Tod- 
dleby ran to the window; it was shut before she 
reached it ; but she could see, behind the pane, the 
rooster’s wing and the bonnet, and a section of the 
monstrous big waterfall. 

She did not stop to parley at the window, but ran 
back to the end of the car, and got on. The train 
was starting at the instant ; and it was the Buffalo 


MRS. TODDLEBY^S EXPLOIT. 


145 


train. Mrs. Toddleby saw the danger of being 
carried off, but she had learned by experience that 
cars did not always go when they started ; and 
moreover, if her shawl and bag were going on that 
train, she preferred to go with them, and trust to 
Providence to get back again, rather than suffer the 
thief to escape with her plunder. She shrieked to 
“ somebody ” to stop the train just one minute. She 
shrieked to her husband, who stood on the platform 
looking for her in every direction except the right 
one. She thought if she could only let him know 
what she was doing, he would be consoled for her 
absence and wait for her return. Evidently he 
heard her voice, for he started, and looked harder 
and harder in every direction but the right one. At 
last, seeing her efforts were in vain, and fearing lest 
the lady thief might take advantage of the delay to 
elude her, Mrs. Toddleby darted through the car till 
she came to the India shawl, and laid her hand on 
the cream-colored middle. 

Why, Mrs. Toddleby ! said the lady. “ I was 
looking for you, to bid you good-bye. Aro you 
going to Buffalo too ? ” 

No, I ain’t,’’ cried Mrs. Toddleby, looking for her 
property ; “ and I didn’t know you was when I give 
you my shawl to hold I Where is it ? ” breathlessl}'’. 

Ye never spoke of goin’ to Buffalo, but said you 
was goin’ to Niagry Falls, ever so fast ! ” 

Yes, for I had never seen the Falls, and my hus- 
band had promised to take me that way. But as 
10 


146 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


soon as you had stepped out of the car, he came 
hurrying back, and said he’d got a despatch which 
told him to go straight on to Buffalo, and we must 
change cars.” 

“And my shawl ? and the bag ? What have you 
done with them ? ” 

“ The bag was under the seat ; and as I didn’t 
know what to do with the shawl, I laid it on the 
bag, where you couldn’t help finding it. My hus- 
band said nobody would steal them. They’re there 
now.” 

“ No, they ain’t there, ma’am ! ” cried the old lady, 
in great agitation. “ You’re desaivin’ me. They ain’t 
under the seat of next the last car, for I looked.” 

“Another car was just hitching on,” remarked the 
lady’s husband. “ Did you look under the seat in 
the last car but two ? ” 

“ No ; for I didn’t know that was the car.” And 
now Mrs. Toddleby appeared quite broken, so great 
was her confusion and distress. 

“ Well, that was the car, and there your shawl and 
bag are now.” 

“ But my husband, he won’t know ! He don’t 
even know where I be ! And here they’re carry in’ 
me away like a whirlwind; and my husband and 
little boy, and bag and shawl, back there in the car 
arter all ! ” 

And Mrs. Toddleby, losing strength and spirit, 
sank down upon the nearest vacant seat in some- 
thing very like a swoon. 


MASTER WADLEY TODDLEBY^S EXPLOIT. 147 


CHAPTER V. 

MASTER WADLEY TODDLEBY^S EXPLOIT. 

Mr. Toddleby waited for his wife in an agony of 
anxiety, until he saw that their own train was start- 
ing, and that a moment later he would lose it. What 
had become of Mrs. Toddleby? He would have 
remained to search for her; but then what would 
become of Wadley ? It would never do to leave 
him to go alone to Brockport; for that exemplary 
and obedient youth, having been told to keep his 
seat until his father returned, would think he must 
do so, though the car should carry him to the Pacific 
Ocean. 

Oh, that woman ! groaned Mr. Toddleby. “ I 
vow, I never ’ll go on a journey with her agin, as 
long as I live ! ” He hung on the steps of the car, 
looking back for her, until the depot was out of 
sight. Thank heaven, I hain’t lost Wadley ! ” he 
said. “ I’m glad I told him to stay in the car.” 
And now he went to find the boy, and tell him of 
his mother’s mysterious disappearance. 

But here arose another still more terrible mys- 
tery. Wadley was not in the seat in which he had 
so resolutely anchored himself! He was not in the 
car ! He was not on the train 1 The tides of fate 
had proved too strong for him. And now, while his 
distracted parent is fiying to and fro, making frantic 


148 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


inquiries for the lost boy, which nobody can answer, 
let us see how he had been swept away. 

His father had scarcely left him, when he saw 
from the car- window, which he amused himself by 
looking out of, a man passing on the other side of 
the depot with a patent-leather travelling-bag in his 
hand. It was precisely such a bag as his mother 
had lost, and, to the mind of Wadley, who had a 
limited experience in such matters, it was no other 
than the same. He ran to the car-platform to tell 
his father ; but his father was at that moment settling 
for the tea he had spilled, at the refreshment stand. 
Wadley remembered well the injunction not to leave 
his seat; but what else could he do? — let the thief 
walk off in that deliberate manner with his booty ? 

Pa ! pal ” screamed the youthful lungs, there’s 
a man with our bag ! ” 

“ Why don’t you catch him ? ” said somebody. 

I will I ” cried Wadley. 

The man was just then going out of the depot; 
and before Wadley reached the corner he had disap- 
peared around it. 

The boy was just in time to see a hackman shut 
him in his hack, mount the seat, and drive off. 
Away rattled the wheels, and away ran Toddleby, 
junior, screaming after them. Up the long street, 
amid carriages and carts, he flew, keeping the vehicle 
in sight, reckless of arriving and departing trains, 
and intent only on recovering the stolen property. 

Excitement lent him speed, and at last he ran 
shrieking and gesticulating alongside the hack. 


MASTER WADLEY TODDLEBY^S EXPLOIT. 149 


“ What you want ? said the driver, pulling up his 
horses. 

“ That man ! he’s got our bag ! ” 

So saying, Wadley wrenched open the carriage- 
door, and seeing the bag, and hearing a train whis- 
tle, — knowing that he had not a moment to spare 
in altercation, — seized the property, and ran back 
down the street with it as fast as he could go. 

And now, instead of chasing a supposed thief, it 
was his turn to be chased. The man jumped from 
the carriage and ran after him, shouting, Stop 
thief I ” The hackman turned about and drove after 
the man ; others joined in the pursuit ; and before 
Wadley reached the depot, he could hear a wild 
crowd howling at his heels, “ Stop thief ! stop thief I ” 
A stone in the pavement stopped him. He stum- 
bled over it, and in an instant his pursuers, among 
whom was a policeman, were upon him. In vain he 
protested, It’s our bag ! it’s our’n I ” The owner 
of the property was ready with a key to open it and 
swear to its contents before seeing them ; and Wad- 
ley Toddleby, after violent struggles and outcries, 
was walked off to a police-station, with an officer’s 
hand on his collar. 


.50 


THE TODDLEBiS ON A TRAIN. 


CHAPTER YI. 

HOW WADLEY CAME TO SEE THE FALLS. 

The climax of the day’s misfortunes was reached 
when the elder Toddleby, arriving disconsolate at 
his son’s house in Brockport, found that Joseph and 
his wife and their three children had gone from 
home, and would not return for two days. 

‘‘ So much for not payin’ the postage on a letter I ” 
Toddleby sank upon a chair. He had relied upon 
his son Joseph’s experience and sagacity to help 
him out of his troubles ; and now he had only a 
stranger, and that stranger a servant-girl, to confide 
them to. I’ve met with the strangest misfortin ! 
I’ve lost my wife ! ” 

The sympathizing girl inquired when she died. 

“ I don’t know as she’s dead, but there’s no 
knowin’ ’t I shall ever see her agin alive. I’ve lost 
my son Wadley too, and that’s the strangest sarcum- 
stance I I don’t know the fust thing what to do. 
Whereabouts has Joseph’s folks gone to ? ” 

They went to Rochester this morning.” 

To Rochester ! Why, ’twas to Rochester we 
stopped and got scattered I He’s to his wife’s rela- 
tions, I s’pose. Why didn’t we know on ’t ? ” 

Whilst Toddleby was groaning over his misfor- 
tunes, a telegram was handed in. “ For me ? ” he 
said j and opened it, and read : 


HOW WADLEY CAME TO SEE THE FALLS. 151 


“Come back to Rochester. Wadley’s in trouble. We are 
here. Joseph P. Toddlebt.” 

It’s from my son ! Wadley is in trouble I My 
hat ! ” ejaculated Mr. Toddleby, starting to go. 

On being told that there was no train until four 
o’clock (it was not yet twelve), he thought he should 
surely die of anxiety and impatience before that 
time ; and how, with his nervous temperament, he 
managed to live through the fearful interval, he 
could never afterwards explain. 

But he did live through it, and in due time 
reached Rochester. 

The first person he saw, on stepping from the 
train, was his long-absent son Joseph coming towards 
him. To the joy of that meeting was added the 
relief of seeing also his son Wadley, alive and well 
and smiling, standing beside his brother. 

“ Where have you been, boy ? What trouble have 
you got into ? ” 

Wadley related how he chased a supposed thief, 
and got caught for a thief himself, adding, “ When I 
told ’em my name was Wadley Toddleby, one of the 
men said he knowed Joseph Toddleby, and had seen 
him in town to-day. * That’s my brother ! ’ says I. 
So they sent and found him, but the officers wouldn’t 
let me go till you come and swore to suthin’, I d’n’ 
know what; so Joseph tally grafted to you; but, 
finally, I told so straight a story, they concluded to 
let me off, without waitin’ for you to swear.” 

But where’s yer mother ? ” 


152 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


“Ma! ain’t she with you?” said Wadley. 
hain’t seen her ! ” 

Ain’t she at my house in Brockport ? ” cried 
Joseph. 

While they were talking, the Buffalo train, which 
unites with the Niagara Falls train at Rochester, 
going east, came rolling into the depot ; and one of 
the first persons to step from the cars was an excited 
old lady in a slate-colored drawn-silk bonnet, black 
cloth cloak, and pongee dress. 

Father ! Wadley ! here I be ! — Joseph ! the 
land I is it you ? ” And in an instant she had joined 
our little group. 

Great was the joy of all. She told the story of 
her adventure, saying in conclusion : ‘‘ And do you 
think, the woman in the Injy shawl and her husband 
in the hide and leather business was real nice folks, 
arter all? They made the conductor give me a 
ticket to come back with, ’cause he’d carried me off j 
and took me to a tavern with ’em in Buffalo — ” 
What ! have you been to Buffalo? ” 

Yes, ’cause there wa’n’t no train back till this 
train, and I could come jest as quick. And they 
give me a real nice dinner ; and the man he tally- 
grafted to Niagry for the railroad to bring back my 
shawl and patent-leather bag ; only, ’stid o’ havin’ 
on ’em left to Brockport, he made a mistake and 
said for ’em to take ’em to Rochester.” 

“ Then they’re probably on this train father came 
in,” said Joseph ; and, disappearing for a moment, 
he returned, laughing, with the bag and shawl. 


HOW WADLEY CAME TO SEE THE FALLS. 153 


" Wal, wal, I declare I ” said Mrs. Toddleby. ^^And 
only think, father, I found my black lace veil ! 

Why, how happened that ? ” 

“Ye see, I was so beat arter I found I’d left my 
bag and shawl and run arter a woman that hadn’t 
got ’em, I jest give right up, and didn’t know much 
of anything for one spell, till somebody spilt some 
brandy on my lips, and 1 went to take my hand- 
kercher out o’ my cloak-pocket, and what did I pull 
out but that veil ! Then I remembered when it 
come off ’m my bunnet in the crowd, and a man 
handed it to me ; he was a real obligin’ feller, and 
I’d like to thank him, but as for the rest, I never did 
see folks act so in all my born days ; when he gi’ me 
my veil back, I was afraid o’ partin’ with it agin, and 
so what did I do with it in my hurry but stuff it in 
my pocket ! And there it was when I went to wipe 
off the pesky brandy ; for if I hate anything in this 
world, it’s any kind o’ sperits about my mouth, sick 
or well.” 

“ Wal, wal, things might ’a’ turned out wus,” said 
the elder Toddleby. “ Now if that letter ’d only 
been paid, so ’s ’t Joseph’s folks ’u’d be to hum — ” 
“ But that’s all right too,” said Joseph. “ Don’t 
you see ? Otherwise I shouldn’t have been here to 
help Wadley out of his scrape. And besides, we’re 
having a great birthday party at my wife’s uncle’s ; 
all her relations are there, and it only wanted some 
of mine to make up the company. You shall stay 
over to-morrow, and get rested, and see the folks, 


154 


THE TODDLEBYS ON A TRAIN. 


and have a good time, and to-morrow night we’ll go 
home with you to my house in Brockport.” 

“ Why, do ye think we’d better stay ? ” said both 
Mr. and Mrs. Toddleby at once ; “ guess we better 
not ; ” although they were delighted at the prospect 
of seeing his wife’s relations, and only needed a little 
urging to accept the proposal. Wal, I don’t know, 
if you say so, Joseph — ” “ You know best.” “ It 

happens jest right about the bag,” added Mrs. Tod- 
dleby ; for I shouldn’t have a clean cap, and you 
and Wadley wouldn’t have a dickey, father, to put 
on, if ’t wa’n’t for that. Mistakes du happen all for 
the best sometimes, don’t they, Joseph ? ” 

“ Oh, goody ! ” exclaimed Wadley, seeing it was 
decided they were to stay ; now I can see the 
falls ! ” 

So the Toddlebys remained at Rochester, and had 
a grand entertainment ; then they went to Brock- 
port, and had a long and delightful visit there ; and 
in due time returned to Worcester County, where 
they found house and farm and produce and stock 
in the very best condition, and learned moreover 
from the blushing ’Lizbeth that she and John Blake 
had made arrangements for a little gathering of 
friends and relatives at home, to take place, with 
her parents’ consent, at about Christmas, and so 
complete the round of festivities for the season. 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


E arly one March morning a very extraordinary 
sound proceeded from the interior of Fair Hill 
Academy. Some of the young gentlemen of Pro- 
fessor Bazin’s class heard it as they were passing ; 
and by the time the janitor arrived, not less than 
thirty students were on the ground. 

What’s the matter, young gentlemen ? ” cried the 
old man, making his way to the door. You’re 
early, and chipper, too ! What are you all snickerin’ 
at, so like a parcel of ninnies ? ” 

Hark, Mr. Dibdin ! ” said one. 

The old man was a little deaf. But as he listened, 
poising his keys before unlocking the door, a strange 
expression stole over his wrinkled and puckered old 
face. 

Ba-a-a-a-ah ! ” came a long-drawn, dismal, hol- 
low, mysterious moaning call from the depths of the 
empty building. 

The boys in waiting burst into wild guffaws of 
laughter. 

Hey ? what ? ” cried the old man, growing ex- 
cited. Which of you young rascals — ” 

155 


156 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


Angrily shaking his keys, he looked round on the 
merry group. 

Ba-a-a-a-ah ! ” once more resounded the mys- 
terious moan, more prolonged and dreary, if possible, 
than before. 

The boys yelled with merriment ; and more stu- 
dents, great and small, came rushing to the spot. 

Old Dibdin thrust his key into the lock, and as the 
door opened, an eager crowd pressed and jostled 
into the entry, pell-mell, after him. 

Nothing was found in the lower rooms, and there 
was a momentary pause as the old man turned . back 
upon the following throng. Just then the same 
hoarse, dismal sound, only louder than before, came 
from the room overhead. 

Up stairs ! to the Professor's room I " was the 
cry of the students. 

And in two streams, up the staircases at each side 
of the entry, they went tumbling and screaming. 
When the rheumatic old janitor reached the upper 
room, a singular scene met his eyes. 

The boys were in convulsions of laughter ; while, 
looking down upon them solemnly through a pair of 
huge leather spectacles, from the Professor's desk, 
was a white-faced yearling calf, just on the point of 
uttering his plaintive Ba-a-a-a-ah ! " 

The Professor shall see that ! Keep away, 
boys ! " said old Dibdin, working his way to the 
front, through the crowd that obstructed the pas- 
sage. ‘‘ Who will go and tell Professor Bazin he is 
wanted in the schoolroom ? " 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


157 


Two or three of the younger pupils started off in 
high glee to bring the Professor ; and it was not 
long before a hush fell upon the merry throng oi 
boys, as he was heard, in his thick boots, with his 
heavy cane, stumping up the stairs. 

They made way for him. He advanced and stood 
before the desk. The Professor in silver-bowed 
glasses looked up ; the calf in leather spectacles 
looked down. The Professor frowned ; the calf ex- 
tended his jaws. 

Young gentlemen — began the Professor. 

Ba-a-a-a-ah / ” broke in the hungry and lone- 
some quadruped. 

The timely effort at seriousness on the part of the 
pupils proved an utter failure ; and even the old 
janitor’s lank sides shook with laughter. Professor 
Bazin was intensely angry, or his own sense of 
humor must have given way before the staring, 
stupid, leather-spectacled burlesque of himself in 
thp desk. 

“ Leave the room, every one of you ! ” he said, 
sternly. “ Somebody will suffer for this ! Mr. Dib- 
din, whose beast is that ? ” 

Giles Tinkham’s, it looks like,” replied the old 
man, as he labored to untie the knots in the rope by 
which the calf was fastened. 

Cut it ! ” cried the wrathful Professor, as he him- 
self pulled off the leather spectacles. 

It may be Tinkham’s rope, too ; I’d rather not 
cut it,” said the cautious janitor. “ I’ll have him 
loose in a minute, — there I ” 


158 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


Away with him now ! ” exclaimed the Professor, 
impatiently. 

That’s easy said, but not so easy did,” said the 
old man, dragging the calf towards one of the stair- 
ways. 

The dumb victim of the students’ fooling did not 
know he was in the hands of friends. He held back. 

“ I’ll help,” said the Professor ; and he pushed 
vigorously behind, while old Dibdin tugged at the 
rope around the calf’s neck. It was lucky for the 
Professor’s dignity that the boys were not there to 
see. 

At last the calf was got to the head of the stairs. 
But he was a stupid calf! He did not know that 
the way into the room was the way out of it — that 
as he had come up so he must go down. He pulled 
back, threw up his head, and in his fright gave a 
prolonged and very emphatic Ba-a-a-a-ah ! ” 

A peal of boyish laughter echoed from the yard 
below. 

Now, once more I ” said the Professor. Again 
they pushed and pulled, and the heavy cane was 
brought into service. The calf was not only ob- 
stinate, he was vindictive. And once when his 
heels were hit, he hit back. 

The Professor dropped his cane and rubbed his 
shin, with an exclamation as near profanity as any 
he was ever provoked to utter. 

Confound the critter I ” 

It is surprising how a serious and cultivated 



Calf in the Professor’s Room. Page 158. 











THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


159 


man will sometimes, in moments of excitement, fall 
back upon the idioms of his youth ! 

The old janitor stopped pulling, and said : 

How the rogues ever got a critter like that up 
these crooked stairs is a wonder to me I We never 
can get him down ! ’’ 

Stay here, while I go and send help,'^ said the 
Professor, picking up his cane. 

The boys below scattered when they heard him 
stumping down the stairs again. At the door he 
called two of them back. 

Kimball ! Brigham ! Make haste and tell Giles 
Tinkham that a calf supposed to belong to him is in 
my schoolroom, and he will oblige me by taking him 
away,^^ 

Brigham was the smallest boy at Fair Hill. Kim- 
ball was the tallest ; Cobbler Kim,’’ he was some- 
times called. They set off together ; and while they 
are delivering their message, and the Professor is 
consulting his assistant teachers regarding the out- 
rage against the dignity of the institution, we will 
take occasion to say a word of Kimball’s history, and 
explain how he came by his nickname. 

Daniel Kimball was the son of a shoemaker who 
had died a little more than a year before, leaving his 
family but very slender means of support. Daniel 
was the oldest child ; there were three girls and a 
boy younger than he. 

Daniel was a tall, awkward, homely boy, but with 
an honest, kindly face, and an earnest good-will be- 


160 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


hind it, which made everybody like him who kne\^ 
him. When his father died, the terrible question 
came up, ‘‘ What is Dan going to do, to help support 
himself and the family ? ” — terrible to Dan and his 
poor mother, to whom it caused many an anxious day 
and sleepless hour at night. 

Daniel had worked at his father’s trade at odd 
spells, since he was old enough to drive a peg and 
draw a waxed-end. But he was fond of play, like 
other boys, and he had no love for the shoemaker’s 
bench. He had never cared much for school, either. 

But the great change in the family prospects 
caused by the death of his father set Daniel to 
thinking seriously of his future ; and one day he 
surprised his mother by saying : 

“ I’d like to go to the Academy next winter.” 

You, Daniel ! ” she replied, dropping her work, 
and regarding him affectionately. “ What’s your 
notion ? ” 

Well, mother,” said he, I suppose I’ve got 
about all the learning I ever shall get in our com- 
mon district school. It will be the same thing over 
again if I go there this winter. At the Academy I 
can study book-keeping, algebra, composition, and 
some other things I’d like to understand. Perhaps 
I sha’n’t be a shoemaker all my days ; and I wish to 
prepare myself to be a good business man, at any 
rate.” 

The mother’s eyes glistened with pride and 
pleasure. 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


161 


“ But how can you pay your way at the Acad- 
emy ? ’’ she asked. “ You know I can’t help you 
much.” 

“ I don’t want you to help me at all/’ Daniel re- 
plied. “ I’ve an idea. The Academy has a fund 
left to it by old Judge Adams, for just such cases as 
mine. It will pay for my tuition, if I can only get 
in ; and I’m going to study hard all summer to pre- 
pare myself.” 

But how will you pay your board ? For, Daniel, 
it is ten miles to the Academy, and you can’t live at 
home.” 

I know that, mother. And this is my plan : The 
students, you know, have sometimes sent all the way 
to this place to have father tap their shoes for them ; 
they say there is no good cobbler near the Academy. 
Now, I’ll take over my bench and some stock and 
tools, and find a room where I can work to support 
myself while I study, and I am sure I can keep up 
with my class. I have thought it all over, and I 
believe I can do it. I know I can, mother, if you 
will only let me.” 

Mrs. Kimball had great faith in her son. Of course 
she gave her consent ; and at the beginning of the 
fall term he was admitted to the school. 

He did not make haste to advertise for work ; 
but the tall boy might have been seen looking down, 
thoughtfully, at the feet of his fellow-pupils, for a 
day or two after he was settled in his new quarters. 

One afternoon, as they were coming away from 

11 


162 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


the Academy, he accosted little Brigham, — another 
poor boy whose tuition fee was paid out of the Adams 
fund. 

Your shoes want mending,’’ Daniel said. 

I know it,” said Brigham. But I can’t get ’em 
mended. I’ve no money.” 

“ Bring ’em to me. I’ll mend ’em for nothing,” 
said Kimball. 

“ You ! ” said little Brigham. How ? Where ? ” 

In my room,” said Daniel ; where I board. 
I’ve a bench there, and lasts, and everything.” 

You’ll spoil my shoes ! ” Brigham objected, star- 
ing incredulously at the young shoemaker. 

“ If I do, I’ll give you a new pair,” Daniel promised. 

Brigham at last agreed to risk his shoes. But he 
had only one pair, and it was necessary that Daniel 
should do the work overnight. The little fellow 
left them in the evening, after dark, and ran home 
barefoot. 

Returning early the next morning, he was de- 
lighted to find his old shoes neatly half-soled and 
heeled. 

He put them on, and stamped his feet proudly. 

But I must pay you some day,” he said. 

“ Well, if you wish to, you can do so without its 
costing you anything,” replied Daniel. Just look 
around among the boys, and when you see any with 
shoes that need mending, show them yours, and tell 
them I cobbled ’em for you. I’ll do my work cheap, 
tnd I’ll do it well.” 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


163 


This was the beginning, and it was not long before 
Daniel had about all the work he cared to do out of 
study hours. Not only the students gave him their 
shoes to mend, but first one of the teachers and then 
another tried his skill with a pair of boots. He was 
liked, while he was laughed at ; and he laughed 
good-naturedly in return when the boys began to 
nickname him “ Cobbler Kim.’’ 

“ They may call me cobbler, if they like,” he said 
to his mother, when he went home to visit her one 
Saturday night ; “ but nobody shall say that I don’t 
do my cobbling well.” 

Tears of love and hope sprang to the mother’s 
eyes. While he showed such a spirit as that, she 
felt that her son must certainly succeed. 

One day Charley Percival came to Cobbler Kim’s 
room. He was the son of Hon. Charles Percival, a 
member of Congress, and a man of wealth and social 
influence. 

Charley was a wild boy ; but Prof Bazin was 
proud of having the son of a member of Congress in 
his school, and he would often overlook, I am sorry 
to say, faults of behavior in the boy which would 
have been punished in another pupil. 

Son of Hon. Charles Percival,” the Professor was 
sometimes heard to whisper to visitors at the Acad- 
emy ; and then all eyes would turn upon the hand- 
some curly-haired Charley. 

He used to blush at first on being thus pointed 
out, but he learned to smile and look interesting after 


164 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


a while, as if he expected and rather enjoyed the 
distinction. 

Percival belonged to a clique of aristocratic boys 
who had very little to do with Cobbler Kim, except 
to give him their boots to mend. They never came 
to his room, except on business. It was that which 
brought Charley there now. 

Look here, Kim,’^ said the young gentleman, 
seating himself in Daniel’s only chair, while Daniel 
occupied his bench, I want you to do a little job, 
and keep mum about it.” 

What is it ? ” Daniel asked. 

Promise just to keep the thing a secret,” Perci- 
val said ; and Daniel promised. 

Then the visitor took a piece of newspaper from 
his pocket, cut in a curious pattern. 

“ You see what it is ? ” said he, as he unfolded and 
held it up. 

It looks something like a pair of spectacles,” re- 
plied Daniel, laughing. 

That’s just what it is;” and Percival peeped 
through the enormous eyeholes held-before his nose. 
“Now I want the same thing in good stiff sole- 
leather. We’re going to have a little fun, you know. 
When can you do it ? ” 

“ Now,” said Daniel. 

He took the pattern, marked the shape on a piece 
of leather, sharpened his knife, and proceeded to 
cut out the spectacles. It was scarcely more than 
two or three minutes’ work. 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


165 


Then he made holes in the ends for strings, and 
handed it to his visitor. 

Charley was delighted. 

What’s to pay ? ” he asked, fumbling in his 
pocket. 

“ Oh, nothing for a trifle like that,” replied Kim, 
carelessly. “ You’re one of my customers.” 

Well, you’ll have a chance to see the fun,” said 
Percival, taking his hand out of his pocket empty. 
“And remember, whatever happens, mum’s the word.” 

“ Oh, yes, I understand,” said Cobbler Kim. 

It was one or two mornings after this that the 
excitement over the calf in the Professor’s desk 
occurred, and Kimball and Brigham were sent with 
a message requesting Giles Tinkham to take his 
animal away. 

“Old Prof is awful mad,” said little Brigham. 
“ Somebody ’ll have to catch it if he finds out I Do 
you know, Kim ? ” 

“ Know what ? ” 

“ Who got the calf up into the Academy ? ” 

“ Whoever it was,” said Kimball, “ they must have 
stolen either the janitor’s or the Professor’s keys. 
It was a foolish piece of business.” And he laughed 
again when he recalled the ludicrous picture of the 
Professor and the calf confronting each other. 

Brigham lowered his voice, and spoke in a friendly, 
confidential whisper : 

“ Do you know, when I saw those leather spec- 
tacles, I thought you must have had a hand in it ! ” 


166 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


I ! ’’ exclaimed Kimball, the laugh dying out 0*1 
his voice and features. It had already occurred to 
him that the spectacles might connect him with the 
afiair, and now Brigham’s suspicion caused him a 
good deal of uneasy thought on the subject. 

Giles was warned, and the unwelcome quadruped 
was removed from the building. Then, at the usual 
hour, the Fair Hill pupils assembled in the reci- 
tation-room, where it was the custom to open the 
exercises of the day with prayer. 

There was a good deal of suppressed hilarity on 
the occasion, I am sorry to say. But the Professor 
performed his duty as if nothing had happened, ex- 
cept that his manner was perhaps a little more grave 
and determined than usual. 

The prayer ended, he addressed the school, speak- 
ing in terms of stern condemnation of the outrage, 
and calling upon any one who could give information 
as to the authors of it, to do so at once. 

The whole school remained silent. Kimball glanced 
his eye around. There was not a more innocent- look- 
ing face in the room than Charles PercivaPs. 

The Professor resumed : “ If any person connected 
in any way with this insult hopes for mercy at my 
hands, now is his time to speak. Let him make con- 
fession, and ask for pardon.” 

No one spoke. 

All silent ? Then this is what will happen ! ” ex- 
claimed the Professor, in a voice of thunder. This 
matter is going to be probed to the bottom, and the 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


167 


guilty ones — no matter who they are — will receive 
the severest punishment which the institution can 
inflict. I’ll winnow this school of such wrong-doers, 
if not a dozen pupils are left. Now, young gentle- 
men, to your lessons ! ” 

As he ended, he fixed his eyes on Kimball. 

The poor fellow tried to maintain an air of inno- 
cence, but he knew that he turned pale ; and in spite 
of his best resolution, he went to his morning’s reci- 
tations with a sinking heart. 

In the evening of that day, when the excitement 
caused by the calf in leather spectacles had had 
time to cool a little, the janitor called on Professor 
Bazin in his study. 

The old man had been quietly investigating the 
affair ; and now there was a look of triumph in the 
puckered and wrinkled face. 

That did not seem to please the Professor as much 
as one might have expected. The good man was 
less angry than he had been in the morning. He 
was beginning to think he might have made too 
severe and sweeping a threat, and to hope that, if 
certain favorite pupils were the culprits, they might 
not be found out. 

Any news, Mr. Dibdin ? ” he inquired, with an 
anxious look. 

The old man nodded with satisfaction. 

I’ve got on the right track,” he said, taking a 
small package from his pocket. 

Mr. Bazin grew pale. He saw in imagination a 


168 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


row of rich men’s sons brought up before him for 
sentence ; and he trembled to think of the punish- 
ment already announced. Expulsion from the Acad- 
emy ! — nothing less than that. He would have 
given anything, just then, if his threat of the morn- 
ing had not been uttered. 

What have you there?” he asked, in a troubled 
tone of voice. 

The old man undid the package, and took out some 
scraps of sole-leather. Bazin breathed more easily. 

Where did you get these ? ” he inquired. 

“ In Cobbler Kim’s room,” replied the old man, 
with a self-complacent grin. I s’pected the feller; 
so I went there when he was out, and pretended to 
set down and wait for him, but watched my chance 
to overhaul his waste-box. I found these. Now 
let’s see how they fit.” 

The Professor opened a drawer in his secretary, 
and took out the leather spectacles. They were 
placed on the table, and the scraps of leather ad- 
justed to them. 

They fitted. Particularly, two round leather 
wheels which the old man had brought were found 
to be exactly the size of the eye-holes. 

Each had a perforation in the centre, evidently 
punched by the awl, round which the leather was 
made to revolve when the circular piece was cut out 
by a knife stuck in the bench. 

That’s a neat job ; it shows the hand of a work- 
man,” observed the old man. “ Kim himself must 
have done it.” 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


169 


No doubt, said the Professor. I felt pretty 
sure he had a hand in the business. But ” — hesi- 
tating — “ no one or two or three boys could have 
got that calf up those stairs.’^ 

Of course he had accomplices,” said Dibdin ; 
“ and I’m on the track of one of ’em. One you’ll be 
sorry to hear named.” 

Then don’t name him, I beg of you ! ” exclaimed 
the Professor. That is, unless the proof is so clear 
and open that it can’t be kept back.” 

As for that, it’s only a clew,” said the old man. 

One of the young gentlemen was in Kim’s room a 
couple of days ago, when the two together had 
a great laugh over something. 

“ He didn’t bring, and he didn’t carry away, any 
shoes ; and he’s one that wouldn’t be apt to visit a 
poor cobbler, unless there was either business or 
mischief on foot. The son of a rich man and a mem- 
ber of — ” 

Bazin put up his hand nervously. He was terri- 
fied at the thought of losing the pupil of whom the 
Academy was most proud ; sick at heart, as he re- 
membered how often he had pointed out “ the son ol 
the Honorable Charles Percival ” to admiring visit- 
ors. Now it seemed to him that the disgrace of the 
distinguished pupil would be the disgrace of the 
Academy itself. 

<^We must use policy in this matter,” he said, 

No doubt an example must be made ; but we musi 
be careful, and not go too far. Kimball is unques- 


170 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


tionably guilty, and the institution can well enough 
spare him.” 

To be sure I ” chimed in the janitor. One 
whose tuition is paid out of the fund ; there ’ll be 
enough to fill his place. But it’ll be hard if the 
blame all falls on him.” 

^‘Yes — hard — no doubt,” replied the Professor, 
with a twinge of conscience, let us hope ; and I 
should be glad to pass over the affair in silence. 
But you and I, Mr. Dibdin, must have the good of 
the institution in view in all we do. Don’t forget 
that. Perhaps some open and palpable proof impli- 
cating others will come to light ; if not, we had 
better deal only with the one we know to be guilty.’’ 

To be sure ! ” said the old man. And the con- 
ference ended. 

Meanwhile, Cobbler Kim felt no little anxiety as to 
his connection with the affair, and the part he was 
still to act. 

He tried to get a chance to speak with Percival. 
But Percival avoided him. 

He thinks we’d better not be seen talking to- 
gether,” Kim thought ; and maybe it is better for 
him. I wish I could carry my head high, and feel 
no more misgivings than he seems to ! I should cer- 
tainly think he was innocent, if I didn’t know.” 

Know what ? Kim reflected again. 

“ I don’t really know that he had any more to do 
with the calf than I had. Maybe he only got the 
spectacles made for somebody else.” 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


171 


It was that air of innocence in the young scape- 
grace which puzzled honest Kim. 

He felt sure the matter would be brought up again 
before the school, and he thought long and intently 
of the course he ought to take. 

Two points were clear in his mind. 

I canH lie about it ; and I can’t break my prom- 
ise to Percival.” 

The very next morning Professor Bazin brought 
up the subject again before the whole school. But 
his manner was not so menacing, and his frown was 
less terrible, than the day before. 

I will give the perpetrators of the outrage one 
more chance to make reparation by confessing their 
fault,” he said, almost pleadingly, in the hope that 
they would thus make it easy for him to retract his 
threat and grant mercy. 

But no one spoke. Then he turned upon Cobbler 
Kim. 

Kimball,” he said, sternly, do you know the 
guilty parties ? Stand up ! ” 

Kimball rose to his feet, drawing a long breath. 
The eyes of the teachers and of the whole school 
were fixed upon him. He was pale ; but the glance 
of his eye was clear and honest. 

I do not know,” he answered, with a slight em- 
phasis on the last word. 

The Professor produced from his desk the leather 
spectacles and the accompanying scraps. 

This was found on the calf,” he said, holding up 


172 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


the spectacles. And these pieces were yesterday 
found in your room. Anybody can see how they fit. 
Now will you deny your knowledge of the affair?” 

Great sensation in the school I The innocent sur- 
prise in Charley PercivaPs face was wonderful to 
behold. 

Kimball drew another long breath, and answered, 
in a firmer tone than before : 

I can say, what I have already said, that I donT 
know who put the leather spectacles on the calf and 
the calf in your desk. 1 certainly did not. I had 
nothing to do with it.” 

How dare you say that, after this proof against 
you ? ” Bazin demanded. 

“ I dare speak the truth,” Kim replied, growing 
bold as he was pressed. It may be proved that I 
cobbled the boots and shoes of all the fellows who 
carried the calf up-stairs, — and there must have 
been a good many of them, — but that wouldn’t 
make me responsible for what they did.” 

‘‘ You acknowledge, then, that this thing ” — again 
the Professor held up the leather spectacles — was 
made in your room ? ” 

‘‘ As for that,” Kimball answered, “ it was not only 
made in my room ; I made 

Why didn’t you say that when I asked you? ” 

“ You didn’t ask me. If you had asked me if I 
knew anything about the leather spectacles, I should 
have told you I did know something, though it isn’t 
much.” 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


173 


“ How much ? Tell all you know,” said the Prc- 
fessor. And yet it is safe to say that he hoped 
Kimball would not tell 

I made them, just as I would have tapped a pair 
of shoes — because I had the tools and the stock, 
and was asked to do it,” said Kimball. I didn’t 
know what the thing was for ; and I never saw the 
calf before I saw him here in this room.” 

At that moment Percival might have been seen to 
wink knowingly to another young gentleman. That 
wink meant, Kim understands himself ; he is all 
right.” 

One thing more,” said the Professor, “ and that 
will lead to an exposure of the whole affair.” 

He laid a peculiar stress upon these words, — per- 
haps to put Kimball on his guard. 

“ If you are as innocent as you pretend, prove it 
now by naming the person or persons who got you 
to cut the leather.” 

Kimball was silent. Percival picked his teeth, 
looking as unconcerned as possible. 

The Professor assumed a sterner air. 

Twice,” he said, you heard me call upon the 
school for information that would lead to the detec- 
tion of the guilty parties. Now I call upon you 
again. You have information to give. Keep it 
back at your peril.” 

I can’t tell you who got me to make the spec- 
tacles,” said Kimball. ‘^If I could, 1 would havfl 
done it before.” 


174 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


Another wink of satisfaction from Percival. 

Why can’t you? ” Bazin demanded. 

“ Because,” said Kimball, I promised I wouldn’t 
tell.” 

The Professor felt that the crisis had come. His 
face was pallid with agitation. He knew that he 
was going to commit an act of injustice, but felt that 
the interests of the Academy required it. How 
many a weak and unwise man has thus done evil 
that good might come ! 

Fearing developments that might bring in the 
names of favorite pupils, Bazin made haste to bring 
the painful business to a close. 

Kimball,” he said, the duty which devolves upon 
me is a very painful one. By your own confession, 
you are implicated in the outrage. < You know very 
well that you would not have been asked to give 
such a promise if this leather had been intended for 
any proper purpose. Are you required not to tell 
what boys you mend shoes for ? ” 

Kimball began to stammer some reply to this 
sharp argument, but Bazin did not heed him. 

‘‘ Whether you helped pull the calf up from above, 
or pushed him from below, — whether you assisted 
in that part of the business or not, — you are an ac- 
complice. And because you have withheld informa- 
tion you might give, to aid in detecting the offend- 
ers, and still stubbornly withhold it, I must apply 
the severest discipline to your case. 

Daniel Kimball, you have forfeited the advan- 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


175 


tages you derive from this institution, and I declare 
you expelled from it.’^ 

Kimball made no reply. He stood as if stunned. 
Then he cast a bewildered look around the room. 
It was a curiously-puzzled, imploring look, and it 
seemed to say, Can those who are really guilty let 
me suffer in their place ? Evidently Cobbler Kim 
could not understand that. 

At last he turned and fixed his troubled gaze once 
more on the Principal. 

Is that all he asked, with simple pathos. 

“ That’s all,” Bazin replied, gently, with I know 
not what heavy sense of guilt in his own heart. 

“ Am I to go ? ” Kim inquired, as if he could not 
yet quite realize the situation. 

You are to go,” said the Professor. He tried tc 
add some word of kind advice, but his lips failed 
him. 

Kimball gathered up his books and went out, amid 
the silence of the whole school. 

Percival smiled and nodded, in a way which said. 
Plucky fellow ! ” and sharpened his toothpick be- 
fore returning it to his pocket. The school drew a 
long breath, and a rustle of relief from the intense 
excitement ran round the room. 

“ To your lessons, young gentlemen ! ” said the 
Principal. And the routine of the morning’s work 
began. 

In a few minutes nobody would have known that 
any such unusual scene had just occurred. Were 


176 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


the consciences of Charles Percival and his accom- 
plices as clear and serene as their faces seemed to 
show ? 

Kimball walked aimlessly about the Academy 
grounds a little while, winking his eyes in a dazed 
and painful sort of way, as if he were as yet hardly 
awake. Then he gave his head a rude shake, 
compressed his lips, and struck his hands sharply 
together. 

“No use of wasting time,^’ he said; “ I can think 
it over while I’m at work.’^ 

He returned to his room, and set himself to tap- 
ping a pair of shoes for one of the neighboring farm- 
ers. He found solace in his task ; and while he 
worked and thought, he was happy. 

The boys who had caused the trouble and escaped 
punishment, and Professor Bazin, who had made an 
“ example ” of him for the sake of the school, might 
have envied poor Cobbler Kim the peace that en- 
tered into his soul, now that he had thought the 
thing all over. So much better it is to suffer wrong 
with a noble and patient spirit than to do evil and 
triumph I 

That evening Professor Bazin sent word to Kim- 
ball that he would like to see him. The boy went 
accordingly, and was shown into the study. 

“ It was a very sad duty I had to perform this 
morning,” remarked the Professor. “ You have been 
a good boy, Kimball ; and I don’t think you were so 
much to blame in the matter as some others.” 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


177 


been thinking about it/^ Kimball replied, 
with modest, manly simplicity, and I can^t see that 
I was very much to blame, any way. So I am satis- 
fied, if you and the others are. I’d a great deal 
rather be in my place than in theirs. I can suffer 
for them, if necessary ; but I could never let any- 
body suffer so for me.” 

This speech went to the Professor’s heart. He 
had to clear his voice before he could speak. 

‘‘You are right, Kimball,” he said at length. 
“ What are you going to do now ? ” 

“Work and study,” replied the boy. “I think I 
can go right on cobbling shoes, and keep up with 
my class, out of the Academy. I suppose there will 
be no objection to that ? ” 

“ None whatever,” said the Professor ; “ on the 
contrary, if I can help you in any way, — privately, 
you understand, — I shall be glad to do so. You 
can bring your problems to me.” 

“ Thank you,” replied Kimball. “ I don’t think I 
shall do that. But when I tell my mother, as I shall 
have to, and that is the hardest part,” — his voice 
faltered for the first time as he spoke of her, — “it 
will be some comfort for her to know that you have 
made the offer.” 

So saying, he returned to his room and to his 
books. 

He carried out his plan, cobbling such shoes as 
were brought to him, and studying out of school. 
He soon found that he had more friends than ever. 
12 


178 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


More than one pupil was glad to show him what the 
class was doing, and explain what he did not under- 
stand about the lessons. 

He sometimes met Percival, who was inclined to 
treat him in a friendly way ; but Cobbler Kim felt 
that he had little to say to the politician’s son. He 
answered his greetings civilly, but that was about all. 

Meanwhile, that young gentleman did not carry 
about with him so serene a conscience as those who 
knew him supposed. And one day — it was near 
the close of the term — he came to Kimball’s room. 

“Well, my boy,” said he, taking the chair Kim 
offered him, “ how are you getting along ? ” 

“Very well,” replied the young cobbler, without 
losing a stroke at the pegs he was driving. 

“ I was awfully sorry for what happened,” said 
Percival, with red cheeks and suffused eyes. 

“ Oh, never mind about that,” Kim answered, 
coldly. And tap! tap! went the hammer, first on 
the awl-handle and then on the peg. 

Percival looked very much embarrassed. 

“ I did an awfully mean thing, — I and the other 
fellows,” he confessed. 

“ I’m glad you think so,” said Cobbler Kim. Tap ! 
tap! 

“ But I had no idea how it would turn out, — of 
course I hadn’t ! ” Percival went on. “ Then when 
I saw how it was, I was a coward ; that’s just the 
truth about it. I wasn’t so much afraid of old. 
Prof as 1 was of my father. I ought to have got 



Perciv'Al’s Interview with Cobbler Kim. Page 178. 







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THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


179 


up and cleared you, — and IVe wished a thousand 
times I had; but I didn’t dare.” 

I’m sorry for you,” said Kim. Tap / tap / tap ! 

“ And I — I — want you to forgive me,” said Per- 
cival, flushed and choking. 

“ Oh, I forgive you,” Kimball poised his hammer, 
and looked frankly into the young aristocrat’s face. 

You haven’t done me a very great injury. I’ve 
paid my way, and kept up with the class ; and I feel 
as if the struggle had been good for me.” 

I’m glad to know it 1 ” Percival exclaimed, with 
tears in his eyes. 

“ I’ve learned a thing or two besides,” Kimball 
went on. I And it’s worth a great deal more to a 
fellow to feel that he is honest, and can pay his own 
way, and take hard knocks without grumbling, than 
it is to be rich and petted.” 

Tap I tap ! went the hammer again. 

When Kim came to that school, he felt that he 
must be very deferential to such sons of fortune as 
Charles Percival. It was as if they belonged to a 
superior race of beings. But he had got bravely 
over that. And now, if you had looked at them, you 
would have said that if there was superiority any. 
where, it was not in the handsome, curly-haired 
young aristocrat, who sat idly twirling his gloves, 
but in the plain, honest, cheerful boy-cobbler driving 
bis awl and pegs. 

Now, what are you going at when the ternj 
closes ? ” Percival asked, after a pause. 


180 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


I’m going to work and study, and do what I can 
for my folks,” Kimball replied. I’d like to get 
into some sort of good paying business ; but until I 
can — ” 

Tap ! tap / the light hammer finished the sentence. 

Would you object to going West?” 

No ; not if I thought it was the best thing to do. 
Why do you ask ? ” 

Because,” said Percival, “ I’ve an uncle in Iowa, 
who has a great deal to do with city lots in two or 
three places. To tell the truth, — and this is what 
I came to say, — I’ve written to him all about you, 
and you are just the chap he wants. 

Here’s his letter. You can read it over, and 
think about it, and then either tell me, or write to 
him what you will do.” 

Poor Kim was so astonished that he didn’t know 
what to say. He glanced over the letter, and then, 
with tears in his eyes, grasped Percival’s extended 
hand. 

It’s just the kind of business I would like ! ” he 
exclaimed ; and of course I’ll go, if my mother will 
let me, and I’m sure she will. And I thank you, 
Percival, with all my heart. You are a great deal 
better fellow than I thought I ” 

Percival smiled at this frankness, and the two 
parted the best of friends. 

Mrs. Kimball gave her consent, and her son set 
off* in a few weeks for Iowa. There he found plenty 
of work, but it was work that he liked ; and it was 


THE LEATHER SPECTACLES. 


181 


not long before he had his mother and brother and 
sisters with him in his new Western home. 

If you should visit him there, you might hear him 
tell the story of his prosperity, which he usually winds 
up with the phrase, — uttered with a humorous twin- 
kle of his honest gray eyes, — 

“ A man may make a fortune, you see, out of a pair 
of leather spectacles I 


A BOY’S ADVENTURE AT NIAGARA 
FALLS. 


S I was walking one day with my friend Q 



along the edge of the cliff below the American 
Fall, he told the following story of his first visit to 
Niagara. 

It was fifteen years ago/^ said he. “ I was a 
mere boy then. My father had died the spring be- 
fore, and I was thrown upon my own resources. 
With my mother’s blessing, and twenty-three dollars 
in m}^ pocket, I walked from our little home on Tona- 
wanda Creek, in the town of Batavia, to Buffalo, 
where I hoped to get into business, make money 
enough to buy a house, take my mother to live with 
me, and educate my younger brother and sisters. 
I was full of ambition. But I didn’t succeed imme- 
diately in finding employment ; and at the end of a 
week, having spent three dollars out of my precious 
little store, — for I knew that my mother had given 
almost her last penny for my journey, — I began to 
grow homesick and discouraged. At last I found a 
situation in a hardware store. I was to be boarded 
and clothed for my services, the first year; to re- 


182 


A BOY^S ADVENTURE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 183 

ceive, in addition, fifty dollars in money, the second 
year ; one hundred, the third year ; and so on. 

engaged the place on Wednesday. I was to 
enter upon my duties the next Monday ; and during 
the four intervening days I determined to treat my- 
self to a view of the Falls. 

“ In order to save as much as possible of my 
mother’s money to send back to her, I made the 
journey on foot. I was all day Thursday about it. I 
slept at a tavern, and thought myself fortunate the 
next morning in making the acquaintance of a very 
polite young man, who said he knew the place, and 
would show me around. 

“Ah ! what a wonderful summer day it was ! How 
the mist went up from the cataract ! how the sun 
made rainbows in it, which brightened and vanished 
as the vapory cloud gathered, and the wind blew it 
away ! how the birds sang in the woods on Goat 
Island ! how our little ferry-boat tossed on the foam- 
ing eddies below the Falls ! how grand and glorious 
it all was, and what a glad child was I ! 

“ My new acquaintance proved a very pleasant 
companion, although he was so very polished and 
self-possessed that he made me, a green country lad, 
feel sometimes very painfully my inferiority. He 
abounded in fine sentiments, one of which I had 
occasion to remember : ‘ Confidence is the flower of 
friendship and the ornament of life.’ This he was 
accustomed to say with a persuasive smile and a 
sweet inflection of the voice which were quite cap- 


184 A boy’s adventure at NIAGARA FALLS. 

tivatiDg. He had a bow, and a flourish, and an apt 
word, for every occasion. He was genteelly dressed ; 
although I remember that his coat was a trifle thread- 
bare, and that he wore it buttoned across his genteel 
bosom, warm as the day was. Once or twice I had 
a glimpse of soiled linen under it; but his polite- 
ness quite made me forget for the time the trifling 
circumstance. 

“ ^ You must certainly cross the ferry,’ he said, ‘ if 
only to be able to tell your mother that you have 
been in Canada. Your excellent mother, — howl 
should delight to see her, and say, I had the honor 
of visiting Canada with your son ! ” Besides, you 
get the best view of the Horseshoe Fall as you cross 
the river below. I am sure,’ he added, ‘ you will 
show your confldence in my friendship by taking my 
advice.’ 

“ I told him I could not well afford the expense 
of crossing; and related the history of my twenty 
dollars. Tears came into his eyes as he grasped my 
hand. 

^ I honor your motives ! ’ he exclaimed. ^ You 
shall make this trip at my expense.’ He led me 
down the ferry stairs, and insisted on paying my 
fare in the boat. ^ Not a word ! not a word ! ’ he 
said, waving me off, and counting out change to the 
boatman. ^ Confidence is the flower of friendship 
and the ornament of life.’ 

So we crossed the ferry ; and, having spent an 
hour in rambling about on the other side, he advised 


A boy’s adventure at NIAGARA FALLS. 185 


me not to return without having first walked under 
the sheet of water. 

“ ^ It is a most astonishing thing ! ’ he said. ^ You 
descend a staircase. You follow a path beneath the 
overhanging cliff. The thundering cataract is before 
you. You pass beneath it, along a narrow shelf of 
rock between it and the precipice. You are under 
Niagara 1 The shelf grows narrower as you pro- 
ceed, until, by the guide’s directions, you put your 
finger in a hole in the rock, which he tells you is the 
farthest point to which mortal man has ever gone. 
It is an experience no enterprising young American 
should be contented to live without.’ 

'Is there no danger?’ I asked. 

“ ^ None whatever. It is exciting, but not danger- 
ous. All that is needed is a little confidence. Con- 
fidence is the — but you know what I think of confi- 
dence. Here is the house where you obtain clothes 
and a guide for the excursion. Let me suggest only 
one thing. You have a watch with you ? ’ 

^ Yes, one that was my father’s. It is very dear 
to me on that account.’ 

‘ How very affecting 1 ’ said he. ^ Treasure it as 
you would the jewel of your integrity. You will 
not wish to get it wet ; and you will be drenched to 
the skin in the spray of the cataract.’ 

^ I can leave it, with my money, where I leave 
my clothes,’ I said. 

‘ In the hands of strangers ? ’ he replied. * Your 
clothes will be safe with them ; but money ? and 


186 A boy's adventure at NIAGARA FALLS. 


your watch? Very well, very well. I suppose thej 
will be safe, although I was about to suggest — hut 
no matter. I shall not go under the sheet to-day.' 

‘ Indeed I why not ? ' 

“ * I've been under it a hundred times already. 
When I say a hundred times, I speak figuratively. 
I have been under it three times, in the course of 
my eventful life. Perhaps, after you have been, I 
will go, provided you will take charge of my pocket- 
book, and a valuable gold watch I carry, which was 
not exactly my father's, but which was presented to 
me by a very dear uncle, — and which, really, I am 
unwilling to trust in any hands but yours.' 

This proof of confidence touched me deeply. 
^ Then,' said I, ‘ if you stay here, you shall take 
charge of my watch'and money.' 

“ ‘ As you please,' said he. And I delivered my 
treasures into his obliging hands. ^ How beautiful ! 
he said, with the same persuasive smile and sweet 
inflection. Confidence is, indeed, the flower of 
friendship and the ornament of life.' 

Now I had all the time a strong feeling that I 
ought not to go under the fall. It seemed as if 
something wrong would happen if I did. But this 
polite and friendly young man had gained such a 
complete influence over me that I had no longer 
a will of my own. Having permitted him to pay for 
my crossing the ferry, I felt bound to please him by 
accepting his advice in everything. He now added 
to my obligations by paying at the counter for the 


A BOy^S ADVENTURE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 187 


clothes and guide I was to make the trip with. This 
he did much against my will, but I could not prevent 
him. 

While he was making change, an old gentleman, 
whose acquaintance I had made at the tavern the 
night before, touched my arm and drew me aside. 
^ You look like an honest boy,^ he said ; ^ and from 
our talk last evening I became interested in you. 
But I’m afraid you are getting into bad company. 
Do you know that fellow ? ’ 

^“He?’ I said. ^Oh, yes, very well; I’ve been 
with him all day. Why ? ’ 

“ ‘ Because,’ said the old gentleman, ^ I don’t like 
the looks of him. I believe he is a rogue.’ 

^ You are very much mistaken,’ I replied. ^ He is 
one of the politest, one of the most generous men ! ’ 
“ ‘ Well, well ; perhaps,’ said the old gentleman, 
smiling doubtfully. ‘ All I have to say is, look out 
for him. You haven’t seen as much of the world as 
I have.’ And he patted my shoulder. 

“ Just then the young man came with the bundle 
of clothes I was to put on, and led me away to the 
dressing-room. He said the guide was waiting, and 
talked so fast, and hurried me so, that I had no time 
to think, until he took leave of me at the top of the 
staircase. 

‘ I will walk about here until you come back,’ he 
said, in such a very friendly way that I was indig- 
nant at the old gentleman who had slandered him. 

** However, the minute he was out of my sight, I 


\88 A BOY^S ADVENTURE AT NIAGARA PALLS. 

oecame troubled in my mind about him. Then I re- 
flected that I had all along felt secret doubts of his 
character, which his persuasive manners and fine 
sentiments had for the time kept concealed almost 
from myself, — just as the tossing white torrent of 
foam, below the Falls yonder, hides the boiling 
eddies under it. I remembered, with increasing 
uneasiness, the old gentleman’s kind warning ; and 
blushed at my foolish remark — that I knew a per- 
fect stranger very well, having been with him all 
day ! As yet I had not even learned my friend’s 
name. There vjds something false about his polite- 
ness, I could not help thinking ; and as to his gen- 
erosity, what difierence did it make which pocket- 
book paid my expenses, his or mine, if he finally ran 
away with both ! 

“ These thoughts flashed through my mind, not- 
withstanding the excitement of the adventure ; and, 
having stood a minute under the cataract, and put 
my finger in the crevice the guide showed me, I was 
anxious to return to the upper world. But now an 
accident happened, well calculated to favor the rogue, 
if he was a rogue, or to prove his friendship, if he 
was a friend. 

“ As I was passing from under the sheet, two or 
three small fragments of rock — loosened, I sup- 
pose, by the jar of the cataract — broke from the 
wverhanging wall and fell on the path between me 
end the guide. 

^ Quick ! quick I ’ he exclaimed, pulling me to* 


A boy’s adventure at NIAGARA FALLS. 18S 


wards him. But before I had passed the spot, a 
larger mass of fragments came down, almost burying 
me beneath them. I just remember the guide call- 
ing for help amid the roar of the Falls, and pulling 
at my shoulder, which was already dislocated by the 
tumbling rocks. Then I swooned away. 

“ When I came to myself, I was in the same room 
where my friend had hired for me my guide and 
clothes. 1 was in great pain, and groaning at every 
breath. I was carried into an adjoining room, and 
laid upon a bedj and there a surgeon visited me, 
and set my bones. 

“ Upon that bed I lay three weeks ; and almost 
every day I could hear people come into the public 
room, the door of which was sometimes open, and 
inquire with regard to the danger of going under 
the Falls. 

“ ^ There is not the least danger,’ was the inva- 
riable reply. ^ No accident was ever known to 
happen to any person going with a guide.’ And 
there I, the victim of a terrible accident, lay and 
listened to these lies, while I was too weak even to 
cry out and expose them. 

A lonely and anxious month that was ; for after 
I had recovered from my injuries so that I could sit 
up, it was still a week before I was able to travel. 
I wrote to my mother. I also wrote to the pro- 
prietor of the hardware store to whom I had en- 
gaged my services. He did not reply, and I could 
not help thinking I had lost the situation. 

I received the best of care at the hands of the 


190 A boy’s adventure at NIAGARA FALLS. 

strangers in whose house I was. It was not 
altogether disinterested care, however. The busi- 
ness of furnishing guides and clothes to visitors 
going under the fall was very profitable ] and it was 
in my power to injure it materially by publishing my 
accident. My case never got into the newspapers ; 
and as I was convinced that the danger of going 
behind the sheet was after all trifling, I took no 
pains to warn anybody against it. 

My expenses, during that long, lonesome month, 
were cheerfully borne by my kind host ; fortunately 
for me, for I had not a cent in the world. I did not 
write that fact to my mother, for I still hoped to hear 
from my watch and pocket-book. 

On making inquiries for my polite friend, after 
my accident, all I had been able to learn was, that 
a person who professed great interest in me had 
charged the proprietor of the house to have every- 
thing done for me that could be done, and had left 
his address on going away, with a message that, if I 
wanted anything, I had only to apply to him. As 
I did want my watch and pocket-book, I determined 
to hunt him up. Luckily, his address was Buffalo, 
where I was going. 

“ Well, I had enough of Niagara Falls that time ; 
and glad was I when the surgeon pronounced me 
able to travel. My host paid my fare to Buffalo, and 
gave me two dollars besides. 

On reaching the city, I hastened first to the 
hardware store where I had hired out. The pro* 


A boy’s adventure at NIAGARA FALLS. 19 J 

prietor looked at me grimly. ^ Oh, you are the boy 
that took the situation, and then ran away I Well, 
we don’t want any such boys as you. Besides, the 
place is filled.’ He would listen to no excuses, and 
I went away with a heavy heart. 

“ I next went to find my friend. The address took 
me to a large warehouse on Buffalo Creek, over the 
entrance to which I saw, with a thrill of interest, the 
very name that was on the card. 

“ ‘ Is Mr. Keplow in ? ’ I eagerly asked ; and was 
shown to the counting-room. 

I entered, and met face to face, not the polite 
young man to whom I had intrusted my watch and 
money, but the plain old gentleman who had warned 
me against him. ^ Ah ! ’ said he, ^ you have got 
along ; I’ve been expecting you. Sit down.’ 

“ Are you Mr. Keplow ? ’ 

That’s my name.’ 

“ ^ And he — that young man you warned me 
against — who had my watch and pocket-book — ’ 
I stammered. 

‘ I know nothing about him ; and if he had your 
property, I could have told you beforehand that you 
would never see it again.’ 

^ I have lost them then, and my situation too ! ’ I 
exclaimed, and burst into tears. 

“ ^ Well, well,’ said he, in a comforting tbne, ^ there 
is no great loss without some small gain. You have 
gained a useful experience, and perhaps you will 
gain something else.’ 


,92 A boy’s adventure at NIAGARA FALLS. 


'‘When I told him about the situation I had for- 
feited, he laughed, and said it was no great loss, aa 
that man could never keep a boy longer than a few 
months, he was so hard with his help. He then 
said he had a place for me in his store, if I would 
like the flour and grain business ; and before I left 
his counting-room I sat down at the desk and wrote 
to my mother that 1 had hired out for five years to 
my new friend. 

“ I remained eight years with Mr. Keplow, and 
before the end of that time I had my sisters and my 
younger brother going to school at my expense, 
finally our firm wished to establish a branch house 
in Chicago, and I was placed at the head of it. 
There I have been ever since, and there I am now, 
doing about as large a business, buying and ship- 
ping grain, as is done by any house on the lakes. 

One morning, a year ago last winter, a gentleman 
entered my office, who said he wished to speak to 
me on personal and private business. The door 
being closed, he seated himself, took from his pocket 

a bundle of letters, and said : ^ Mr. G , I have 

been induced to call on you, knowing that you are 
a liberal and high-minded man, and an influential 
member of the church of which I am a humble, but, 
I trust, faithful officiating minister. It is the same 
church, although you reside here in Chicago, and the 
field of my labors is in the distant State of Maine. 
My name is Loddy. I am a younger brother of the 
distinguished Dr. Loddy of New York. I produce 


A boy’s adventure at NIAGARA PALLS. 193 

these letters to show you that I am what I profess 
to be.’ 

I glanced at the letters, and asked how I could 
serve him. 

“ ‘ I was so unfortunate, on getting off the train in 
a crowd last night, as to have my pocket picked. 
At this distance from my family and friends, I find 
myself suddenly without a dollar in money, either to 
pay my hotel expenses or to prosecute my journey. 
What I wish is a loan of fifty dollars, which shall be 
returned to you as soon as I get home. I regret 
exceedingly the necessity I am under of making 
this call upon your generosity, or I should rather 
say confidence ; but confidence is a beautiful vir- 
tue which we do not perhaps sufficiently cultivate, — 
it is the flower of friendship and the ornament of 
life.’ 

“ I was already trying hard to remember where 1 
had seen that man ; and every moment his plausible 
manners and persuasive smile were growing more 
and more familiar to me, when that favorite senti- 
ment concerning confidence lighted up my memory 
as by an electric flash. I arose, and stood with my 
back against the door. 

‘ Mr. Loddy,’ said I, ^ do you remember a father- 
less boy you robbed of a watch and twenty dollars, 
at Niagara Falls, thirteen years ago ? I am that 
fatherless boy, and I am very glad to see you.’ 

“ He blandly denied all knowledge of the circum^ 
stance. 


13 


194 A BOY^S ADVENTURE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 

“ ‘ Mr. Loddy, or whatever your name may be, you 
are an impostor j these letters are forgeries ; and it 
is in my power to send you to prison. Your only 
chance for yourself is to make a frank confession, 
and promise better things.’ 

“ When he saw that 1 was in earnest, he said : ‘ I 
do begin to remember a little adventure with a boy 
at Niagara Falls a few years ago ; but I should never 
have suspected you of being that boy. How whis- 
kers have changed you, to be sure ! ’ 

“ ‘ Confess,’ said I, ‘ that you are a sharper and a 
blackleg by trade.’ 

‘ That is unfortunately the truth,’ he said, more 
seriously ; ^ and I can say from experience that a 
very poor trade it is.’ 

‘ You do not look as if you had prospered at it,’ 
I said. 

‘ I JiavenH prospered at it ! ’ he exclaimed, his 
false smiles fading, and a genuine emotion coming 
into his face. ‘ It’s a trade that don’t pay. If I had 
given half the time and energy to some honest call- 
ing, which I have employed in trying to get a living 
without work, I might now be a man of property 
and reputation like you, instead of the homeless 
wretch I am ! 

He told me his history, saying in conclusion, ‘ I 
have been twice in state prison ; and I have made 
acquaintance with all sorts of miseries in my life ; 
but I tell you my worst punishment is in being what 1 
amJ 


A BOY^S ADVENTUEE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 195 


“ He spoke sincerely ; and I was never so forcibly 
struck with the truth^ that the robber robs only him- 
self. The wrong he had done to me, and to hun- 
dreds of others, was but trifling and temporary ; but 
the wrong he had done to his own manhood was 
deep and everlasting. 

I could not but pity the wretch, and having 
burned his forged papers, to prevent him from doing 
more mischief with them, I let him go. I have never 
heard from him since.’^ 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


NE afternoon in midwinter, many years ago, I 



yj accompanied a little party of sleigh-riders on 
an excursion to the mound-famous town of Joliet, in 
Illinois. 

We were six in number — merry boys and girls in 
our teens. Our starting-place was a residence on 
the East Branch of Du Page River, distant — if I 
remember well — some fifteen miles from Joliet. 
Our object was, not to visit the celebrated ancient 
mound, but to enjoy a good sleigh-ride, get some 
refreshments at a hotel, and return home by the 
light of the moon. 

Of the first half of our expedition, and the enter^ 
tainment for man and beast, — or rather for boys 
and girls, and the two gray ponies, at the Joliet 
tavern, — I have no distinct recollection. It is only 
the return journey which I remember with any 
vividness now. 

Our party occupied a single sleigh, in the old- 
fashioned style of sleigh-riding. There was one 
high seat, a place for the driver, where he could sit 


196 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


197 


up in sight of his horses. The rest of us bestowed 
ourselves upon the luxurious lining of hay, and blan- 
kets, and biifialo-robes, with w’hich the sleigh was 
furnished ; covered ourselves well, sat close, and re- 
lied upon health, and mirth, and sympathetic contact 
to keep up a summer jglow in our blood, under the 
cold sky of a winter night. 

Our homeward course lay towards the north. Our 
return had been hastened by dubious appearances 
of the weather, which promised a snow-storm in 
place of the anticipated moonlight. It was not yet 
four o’clock when we set out. The ordinary track 
of travel was for a time easily followed over the 
white prairies. But fast the gray sky thickened 
over us ; the wind arose, blowing keenly in our 
faces ; the snow began to fall and drift and fill the 
air ; and suddenly the winter night closed around us 
with tempest and gloom. 

Nobody was alarmed, however, until a quick 
“ whoa ! ” from the driver, and an abrupt pulling 
in of the gray ponies, brought us to a halt. 

“ What is the trouble, Charley ? ” 

I want to let the boys breathe a minute,” replied 
Charley, alluding, not to his companions, but to the 
horses. 

Jest, and song, and laughter, ceased in an instant. 
The pretence of afibrding the ponies a breathing 
spell was too absurd to be accepted. We put our 
faces out of the buffalo-robes, — felt the sharp north 
wind, and the driving volleys of snow bite and sting 


198 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


US, — looked out upon the desolation and gloom of 
the scene, — saw only storm and gray-streaked dark- 
ness ahead, — and realized with a sudden shock the 
dangers of our situation. 

We have lost our way ! cried the terrified girls. 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Charley. “ We are only a little 
off the track. I can strike it again in a minute.” 

He started up the ponies ; slowly at first, then 
faster and faster, until he was driving at the same 
confident trot as before. 

Has he found the track ? ” the girls eagerly in- 
q^uired. 

“We’ll risk Charley!” cried the boys, to quiet 
them ; “ he’ll find the track, or make one.” 

At the same time we were aware of a solemn fact. 
Charley had not only lost the track, but he had 
already abandoned all hopes of finding it, or of fol- 
lowing it when found, in a storm which had so com- 
pletely obliterated all traces of it on exposed places 
within the short time we had been upon the road. 
He was indeed making a new track, which the fury 
of the storm almost immediately closed up behind 
us, — like a wake on a white sea, — so that it would 
have been as difficult to retrace our way as to pro- 
ceed. But trusting partly to his own sagacity, and 
partly to the instinct of the horses, he whipped 
boldly on, in the hope that we should meet some 
traveller, or find some landmark, or strike some set- 
tlement, before the night was much advanced. 

The reader will of course understand that the 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


199 


prairies were then unfenced, and that the roads 
were simply wagon-paths laid out as chance or con- 
venience directed. Human habitations were rare : 
one might indeed ride all night, in almost any direc- 
tion, without discovering one. There were no woods, 
except here and there, at wide intervals, along the 
borders of the few streams. But all was prairie — 
prairie beyond prairie — in seemingly endless undu- 
lations, treeless and shrubless, and ever barren but 
for the luxurious growths of summer grass and 
flowers. 

The moon was hidden in thick snow-clouds, and 
soon all the light we had was from the white earth, 
dimly reflecting the filtered starlight and moonbeams. 
But even had the sky been clear, it would have been 
impossible to see far, in the tempestuous drifting. 
We seemed to be upon a limitless desert of white 
sand, which the wind lifted, and whirled in clouds 
and columns and spectral forms, like swift-running 
racers with pale streaming manes, — enveloping us, 
and blinding our eyes. Now a vast body of mingled 
drift-snow from the prairies and clouds went stalk- 
ing by like the ghost of some old-world Titan, loosely 
holding his vague and immense shroud wrapped 
about his phantom limbs. Then the ground all about 
the sleigh seemed alive with milky serpents, gliding 
with erect crests, — darting, coiling, hissing, — chased 
by the wind. And now we came upon deep drifts in 
hollows, and again passed over the almost naked 
summit of some tempest-swept hill, where only a 


200 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


thin crust of snow imbedded itself about the roots 
of the dead, drooping grass. 

‘‘How does it look, Charley was a frec^uent 
question. 

“ Fine weather — bright moonlight — hope you are 
having a good time ! ’’ came back the usually good- 
humored answer, in snatches, through the storm. 

“ Do you want either of us to drive ? ” 

“ No ! it’s fun ! ” 

“ Where are we ? ” 

“ Sleigh-riding ! ” 

“ Does your mother know ? ” 

“ No ! ” echoed Charley. 

With such nonsense, and appearance of light-heart- 
cdness, we endeavored to dispel the fears of the 
young ladies, and keep up our own spirits. But it 
was terrible I and all the time we knew how Charley 
suffered, facing the fierce gale. And the ponies 
too ; — they had slackened their pace : would they 
be able much longer to keep on ? 

I climbed up from my comfortable couch in the 
sleigh, and spoke to Charley. 

“ Have you any idea where we are ? ” 

“ No more than as if we were on the ocean ! ” 

“ What do you think ? ” 

“Don’t tell the girls,” said Charley. “We have 
travelled as much as fifteen miles already. We 
should have struck the East Branch long ago. Can 
you see anything ahead ? ” 

“ Nothing but clouds of snow ! ” 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


201 


Neither can I ! IVe thought twenty times Tve 
seen woods, but ’twas nothing but snow flying. 
Don’t it come thick ! ” 

“ What will you do ? ” I anxiously inquired. 

“ Keep on.” 

But the ponies ? ” 

“ They’ll travel till they drop. Get back there, 
and keep warm. I shall want you to drive by-and- 
by. But not now.” So I crept back to my place. 

“ What discoveries ? ” 

“ There’s some appearance of a storm,” said 1. 

I am dreadfully frightened ! ” gasped one of the 
girls, half stifled by the wind and snow into which 
she ventured to look out for a moment. We shall 
never get home I We are going farther and farther 
ofi* on the prairie ! ” 

I was startled by a singular movement on the part 
of Charley. He left his seat, and tumbled down 
amongst us in the sleigh. I felt him ; he was cold as 
a polar-bear. 

“ Give me room here ! it’s my turn now ! ” he cried, 
hilariously, but with a voice that betrayed his numb- 
ness and suffering. 

“ Have you left the ponies?” asked the girls. 

They will travel just as well without a driver. I 
have fastened the reins. Keep a look-out, boys, for 
timber. I’ll be up again as soon as I thaw my eye- 
lids apart.” 

I got up in his place, took the reins, and now for 
the first time experienced the full violence of the 


202 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


storm. It smote me in the teeth, it sucked my 
breath, it beat my brow and eyes, it seemed to laugh 
and leap upon me, and endeavor to hurl me from the 
seat with its buffeting arms. 

My driving had an unfortunate beginning ; for we 
had gone but a little way after I took the reins be- 
fore the ponies plunged into a snowbank, which in- 
gulfed them almost to their backs. They struggled, 
floundered, nearly upsetting the sleigh and greatly 
terrifying the girls, — but finally took us through. 
They appeared now completely jaded, and it was 
scarcely possible to urge them into a trot. It was 
plain that to travel many miles farther was out of the 
question. 

“ What shall we do ? what shall we do ? the girls 
kept asking. 

Encamp ! ’’ said Charley, who never once lost his 
courage or good-humor. 

How encamp ? ” 

‘‘ Dig a hole in the snow. Turn the sleigh-box 
over it for a roof. Use the blankets and bufialo- 
robes for beds. Do it comfortably, can’t we, boys ? ” 

‘‘ But the ponies ? ” 

Turn them out to grass ! Look out for a good 
snow-bank, driver ! ” 

Here we are ! ” said 1. 

What ? ” 

“ Brought up in the biggest drift yet I The ponies 
are buried ! They never ’ll get through this ! ” We 
had, in fact, come to a dead halt. 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


203 


Just as I expected I said Charley. Now, let’s 
see I Different from what it was when we took that 
ride last summer, isn’t it, boys ? ” 

Different, indeed I — the balmy summer evening, 
the gorgeous sunset, the green, waving grass of the 
prairies oversprinkled with the fire and gold of 
fiowers, the cool breeze, the prairie-hens flying up 
from under our horses’ hoofs and whirring away, the 
sand-hill cranes alighting in the hollows, the large 
dim stars melting through the twilight sky, the 
whippoorwill’s note in the grove, and our own glad 
singing as we rode leisurely and late homewards, — 
how strange to think of all this in the darkness and 
danger and enveloping snow of this wild winter 
night I 

We may as well do it, first as last,” said Charley. 

We can blanket the ponies, and give them a shel- 
ter behind our camp. What do you say ?” 

“ Let’s see what discoveries we can make first,” I 
said, leaping into the drifts before us. I wallowed 
through them, and reached the horses’ heads. There 
was no hill beyond. What, then, had caused these 
drifts ? I struggled forward still further ; I struck 
out with my arms ; I uttered a scream of joy. 

A fence ! a fence, boys ! ” 

Charley came wallowing to my side. 

This is luck ! You are the driver for my money ! 
It’s all right, girls ! ” 

“ But a fencfe is not a house ! ” 

It is a sign of houses,” said Charley. “ Or it 


204 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


will help US build our camp, if we can’t do any 
better.” 

I left him to extricate the sleigh and ponies from 
the drift, and set out to make discoveries. I first 
went straight forward beyond the fence, in hopes to 
find a habitation. Meeting with no success, I re- 
turned, and followed the course of the fence, keep- 
ing on the inside of the field, while Charley drove 
around it. I soon came to a corner. Not far to the 
windward of that was a pair of bars. Once more I 
struck into the field, — discerned not far before me 
a dim object looming up in the snow, — pushed 
towards it, — and discovered it to be a house. 

I found the door, rapped vigorously, and shouted ; 
but all was silent and dark within. 

What is it? ” cried Charley, following me. 

A house, — don’t you see? Don’t you hear me 
pound ? ” 

The best luck yet ! We are safe I ” 

But if there is nobody here ? ” 

“No matter. We will break the door in. It’ll 
answer for a bedroom for us, and a stable for the 
ponies.” 

And Charley pounded. Then we both pounded 
together, for the growling of a dog within convinced 
us that the place was not without inhabitants. At 
last a light was struck, glimmering through the 
snow-crusted panes. 

“ What do you want ? ” cried a gruff voice. 

“ Open ! open ! ” we shouted. 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


205 


‘‘ No you don’t ! ” said the voice. Go away ! ” 

Let us in ! ” stormed Charley. 

“ Clear out, or I’ll shoot you I ” retorted the voice, 
with a snarling accompaniment from the dog. 

I called a parley, told our story, and appealed to 
the humanity of the man to admit us, or guide us on 
our way. 

It may be all a trick I ” said he. 

How a trick ? ” 

Maybe you are the sheriff come to take me ; 
but ” — with an oath — “ you’ll find it’s a tough job ! ” 
The sheriff ! what an absurdity ! But we had no 
time to laugh at it. 

We are no more the sheriff than we are the man 
in the moon ! I)o you think a sheriff would come 
for you such a night ? ” 

“ He’d come when he would be most likely to catch 
me. But I’ve got my gun ! ” 

And would he bring a load of girls with him ? ” 
“ How do I know you have got a load of girls ? ” 

Won’t you take our word for it ? ” 

« No I ” 

But if we will bring them to the door, where you 
can hear their voices, will you let us in ? ” 

U No ! 

What will you do } ” 

“ Stand back from the door, and I’ll open it. Look 
out for the muzzle of my gun ! ” 

The door opened, and, in the dim light of a candle, 
a stout man, half dressed, stood on the threshold, 


206 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


with a levelled gun in his hands, and a big dog by 
his side. 

There ! you can hear the girls in the sleigh ! ” 

“ It’s a very bad night, strangers,” said he, “ and I 
reckon you’ve told about the truth. You are wel- 
come to come in ; or if you’ll tell me whar ye want 
to go, mabby I can direct ye.” 

‘‘We have driven from Joliet, and we want to find 
the East Du Page settlement.” 

“Joliet! East Du Page ! How did you ever get 
here ? ” exclaimed the astonished squatter. “ You’ve 
come about three miles too fur.” 

“ Three miles I is that all ? ” 

“East Du Page is right through the woods off 
here,” — pointing with his gun. 

“ And the Nine Oaks ? ” 

“ I can show you the woods ; follow along the edge 
of them — you’ll be under shelter — bimeby you’ll 
come to Wheeler’s barn — ” 

“ I know the barn ! and I know you now, Mr. 
Groffy,” said Charley. “ People say you do steal 
horses, but I’ll call you an honest fellow the longest 
day I live, if you’ll show us to the woods.” 

Accordingly Mr. Groffy returned his gun to its 
place, put on his coat and hat, and went with his dog 
to guide us to the woods. This service done, we 
offered him money, which he refused, — for some 
men would rather steal than accept anything that 
appears like alms, or even well-earned wages. So 
we thanked him, and bade him good-night. And 


A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES. 


207 


now cheerily under the shelter of the woods we 
drove, until Nine Oaks was reached, where a warm 
stable awaited the ponies; and a glowing fire and 
comfortable beds and rejoicing friends stayed for 
us, escaping with thankful hearts from the terrors of 
a winter night on the prairies. 


rHE LOAD OF WOOD. 


T he ht>ys were talking about the kind of business 
they would choose, when Uncle Asa came into 
the room. As Uncle Asa had tried several kinds, 
and been prosperous in all, they appealed to him for 
advice. 

What 1 want to know is this,” said Charley, in 
the course of the discussion which followed ; “ you 
have bought and sold a good many things, but what 
has turned out to be the most profitable ? ” 

Uncle Asa considered a moment, while a curious 
smile passed over his pleasant, rosy face. 

Well, if I were to name any one thing which I 
have handled, and which has in the long run proved 
most to my advantage, — • well,” said the old gentle- 
man, nodding decidedly, I think I must say, a load 
&f wood.” 

“ A load of wood ! ” chorused the boys. They 
had expected he would say wool, or wheat, or hard- 
ware, or indigo ; and they couldn’t believe his rep! 
was quite serious. 

“ But it is ! ” said Uncle Asa. A load of wood 
and not a large load, either ; not nearly so large as it 

208 


THE LOAD OP WOOD. 


209 


looked. It was really the beginning of ray fortunes, 
and I am sure I owe more to it than to anything else 
I ever dealt in. 

Tell you about it ? Of course I will, if you wish 
it ; and perhaps it will help to start you in the right 
direction. 

^‘It was when I was a boy, — about your age, 
Charley ; I think I was sixteen that fall. The sum- 
mer work was well over; the winter school had not 
yet begun ; and my cousin Medad and I were con- 
sidering how we should earn a little pocket-money. 
My father heard us talking over some boyish schemes, 
and said to us : 

‘ I can give you an idea better than that. There’s 
the oak that blew over last spring, in the mill-pas- 
ture. You may cut it up, and have all you can make 
out of it.’ 

* But there’s work in that,’ I said. 

^ Yes ; so there is in almost any honest job people 
are willing to pay money for. But it isn’t so hard as 
you think,’ said my father. ^ One stroke at a time ; so 
many strokes an hour ; so many hours a day. That’s 
the way great things are accomplished. It isn’t 
much of a tree ; you’ll wish there was more of it 
before you get through.’ 

Well,” Uncle Asa continued, we undertook the 
job, and we did wish there was more of it. With a 
cross-cut saw and beetle and wedges, then with 
a hand-saw and an axe, we reduced that tree to 
stove-wood in a very short time, — and had fun out 
14 


210 


THE LOAD OP WOOD. 


of it too. Boys have only to be interested in their 
work, you know, to find it pleasant. 

We saw profit in every stick, and had as much 
talk about the way we would dispose of the wood, 
and what we would do with the money, as if we 
had been young millionaires discussing some great 
project. 

^ There^s a good deal in the way you pile wood, 
to sell it,’ Medad said. ^There’s Jake Meeker, — 
he says he can take nine cords of wood and pile it 
over and make ten of it, easy as nothing.’ 

“ ^ Yes,’ I replied ; ^ and my father says he can 
throw his hat through some of Jake’s wood-piles — 
such great holes ! He don’t really make ten cords 
of it that way.’ 

Yes, he does,’ Medad insisted. ^There’s holes 
through every wood-pile ; and you measure so much 
for a cord, whether they’re big or little.’ 

“ ^ But that’s cord-wood,’ I said. ‘ You can’t pile 
stove-wood so as to make so much more of it.’ 

We’ll see about that,’ Medad replied, with a 
!augh. ^ We’re going to make the most of our job, 
ain’t we ? ’ 

‘‘ ^ Of course,’ I said ; and waited with a good deal 
of curiosity to see how he would manage. 

He showed me in a day or two. We had an old 
one-horse wagon ; we harnessed Dolly to it, and 
backed it up to our wood-pile. Then we began to 
lay the sticks loosely in the box, so as to make them 
take up as much room as possible. 


THE LOAD OP WOOD. 


211 


But they did not fill up so fast as we had ex- 
pected ; for we knew that if we piled them too 
loosely, they would be apt to shake down together 
on the way to the village, and so cause our load to 
shrink before we sold it. 

“ Medad looked at the wood in the box when it 
was half filled, and then at that which remained on 
the ground, and shook his head dubiously. ^ ’Twon’t 
do ! ' he said. ^ We ought to make three loads of it; 
but at this rate we sha’n’t make two. IVe an idea ! ^ 
‘ What ? ’ I said, wondering how he would get 
out of the diflSculty. 

“ ^ Throw it all out again ; I’ll show ye ! ’ 

“ I didn’t like that notion ; but he insisted, and 
the wood was all unloaded but a few sticks in the 
bottom of the wagon-box. With these he began to 
^ build ’ the load, as he aptly termed it. Instead of 
laying the sticks together all one way, he placed a 
few on the bottom far apart, and others crosswise on 
those, also very far apart, cob-house fashion. Then 
he called upon me for more wood. 

“ < But, Mede,’ I objected, ^ this will never do.’ 
i Why won’t it do ? ’ he demanded. 

^ It’s cheating, isn’t it ? ’ 

^ It’s no more cheating than the way Jake Meeker 
piles his wood is cheating ! Other folks do so ; only 
we make our pile a little more hollow than common.’ 

“ I couldn’t deny the truth of this argument. And 
if others made the most of their wood by their skill 
in piling it, why shouldn’t we do the same ? 


212 


THE LOAD OP WOOD. 


Still I hesitated. A man might perhaps be ex- 
cused for cheating a little ; but we were preparing 
to cheat a good deal. 

“ ‘ The principle is the same/ Medad said, when I 
mentioned my scruples (pretty fellows we were to 
talk of principles ! ). ^ It ain’t cheating exactly ; but 

even if it is, it’s what everybody does in the way of 
business. Ye can’t get along without it ; mabby ye 
can in the next world, but ye can’t in this. Who 
tells the bad points in anything he wants to sell ? 
Don’t everybody cover them up, and show the good 
points, and make the most of ’em ? Of course they 
do. Hand me more sticks I ’ 

I wasn’t convinced in my heart and conscience 
by this plausible speech. But my cousin, who was a 
year older than I, had a great influence over me, and 
I must confess that I was a little too anxious to get 
rich out of that wood. So I merely said, ^ Don’t make 
the hollows too large, Mede,’ and handed him more 
sticks. 

‘ I’ll look out for that/ he said. ^ Now you’ll see.’ 

After about half a load had been built hollow, he 
put our crookedest and meanest sticks over it, and 
then covered the whole with nice wood closely 
packed, filling the wagon, so that, to all appear- 
ances, we had on a fine, compact load. 

“ My father came out and looked at it as we drove 
out through the yard, and praised us for our indus- 
try. ^ Well, well, boys,’ said he, ‘ you’ve got a hand- 
some load of wood, I must say. I’d buy it of you, 


THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


213 


but I suppose it will be just as well for you to take 
it to town and see what you can get for it.’ 

^ I think it will be better/ said Mede, with a sly 
wink at me. ^ What is such a load as that worth ? ’ 
“ ‘ Stove-wood like that — white-oak — solid load 
right through/ said my father, running his eye over 
the wagon-box, ^ ought to bring at least two dollars.’ 
u ( We’re going to get three for it,’ said my cousin. 
“ ^ That’s too much,’ said my father. ‘ Never, boys, 
try to get more for a thing than it is really worth.’ 

I knew that he always acted upon this principle 
himself ; and I felt some pangs of conscience as I 
thought of the empty spaces hidden in that load. 

‘ But I’ll tell you what you may do/ he said. 
^ Drive to Deacon Finch’s store, and get him to look 
at your load. He knows better than I do what wood 
like that is worth in the village, and if he says three 
dollars is about right for it, why,’ my father added, 
with a shrewd twinkle, ^ get it if you can I ’ 

“ He knew very well that Deacon Finch wouldn’t 
say any such thing. And as we drove out into the 
road, my cousin laughingly said that the deacon was 
the last man he would ask to examine that load. 

But as we were driving into the village we met 
Deacon Finch in his chaise ; and the temptation to 
play a sharp game on him was too much for my 
oousin. For my own part, I was feeling pretty sick 
of the idea of selling the load in its present shape to 
anybody ; and I strongly objected to the proposed 
attempt on so sagacious a man as the deacon. 


214 


THE LOAD OP WOOD. 


* It happens just right; don’t you see?’ Medad 
insisted. ^ He won’t get out of his chaise ; and it’s 
a splendid-looking load, as you look down on it. If 
he buys it, he will tell us to drive it to his house ; 
and of course he won’t go to see us unload it.’ 

“ So he drove up on the roadside, and stopped the 
deacon as he was passing. ‘ Mr. Finch,’ he said, 
‘ wouldn’t you like to buy a load of first-rate white- 
oak wood? Just look at it, if you please.’ 

“ ^ I’ve wood enough,’ said the deacon. ^ But it’s 
a nice-looking load you’ve got, and I guess you won’t 
have any trouble in disposing of it.’ 

‘‘ ^ What is such a load as that worth, delivered in 
town ? ’ asked Medad. ^ We cut it ourselves.’ 

^ How much is there ? ’ 

^ I don’t know; haven’t measured it ; just call it a 
load,’ said Medad. 

^ Good as that all the way through ? ’ queried the 
deacon. 

‘‘ ‘ About the same,’ said Medad. 

^^^Well, from a dollar-seventy-five to two-and-a- 
quarter ; somewhere along there,’ replied the deacon. 

^ Will you give us two-and-a-quarter for it ? ’ 
Medad was quick to inquire. 

‘ I told you I had wood enough. But I like to 
encourage boys ; I’ll look at your load.’ And to the 
terror of one of us, very sure. Deacon Finch slowly 
and deliberately got out of his chaise. 

I don’t suppose anything in our looks caused him 
to suspect our honesty ; for my cousin did the talk- 


THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


215 


ing, and I must say I could not but envy the cool 
and candid manner with which he carried on his part 
of the interview. 

“ ^ You are Mr. Prank’s boys, ain’t you ? ’ said the 
deacon, going to the hind end of the wagon. 

‘7 am Mr. Prank’s son,’ Medad replied, promptly. 
^ This is my cousin.’ 

^ Good wood ; well split ; pretty smart boys ! ’ 
said the deacon, tumbling over a few sticks on top. 
‘ Guess I’ll take it.’ 

“ ‘ Shall we deliver it at your house ? ’ Medad 
asked, almost too eagerly. 

“ ^ Wait a minute I What’s here ? ’ cried the dea- 
con, thrusting down his hand and pulling up one of 
the hidden crooks. ‘ Is there much like that ? ’ And 
he began to dig down straight into one of our choice 
hollows. 

‘ See here, if you please ! ’ said Medad, alarmed, 
‘you needn’t take the wood if you don’t like it, but 
don’t spoil our load I ’ 

“ ‘ Spoil your load I ’ echoed the deacon, with in- 
dignant scorn, thrusting in his arm up to his shoul- 
der. ‘ You wouldn’t be afraid of my spoiling an 
honest load ; but what sort of a load is this ? It’s a 
perfect cheat, and you are a couple of rascals ! ’ 

“ ‘ You needn’t take it if you don’t want it I ’ 
Medad repeated, more angry than ashamed, I am 
sorry to say. ‘ We just put it that way to make a 
handsome load of it ; but we don’t expect anybody 
to pay for it till they’ve seen it thrown off.’ 


216 


THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


The deacon did not, evidently, put much faith in 
this falsehood, for he reprimanded us again sharply 
as he climbed back into his chaise. 

“ < I guess he was about right, Mede,’ I said, as we 
watched him drive away. ‘We are a couple of 
rascals ! ^ 

‘ Pshaw ! who cares ? IPs what everybody does,^ 
said Mede, blusteringly ; ‘ what he does himself, 
every time he sells goods out of his store. It takes 
a rogue to catch a rogue. We’ll look out next time.^ 

^‘He laughed scornfully when I begged him to 
drive home and re-load the wood in honest fashion. 
But he was shy of making the sale where the deacon 
would be likely to hear of it. 

“ ‘ We’ll go over to the East Village,’ he said. 
Tt ’ll be dusk when we get there ; nobody will know 
us ; and by that time nobody can look into our load.’ 

<‘This plan was carried out in spite of my too fee- 
ble objections. I drove the horse, while Medad went 
from door to door in the East Village, offering the 
wood ‘ dog cheap,’ he said, because it was so near 
night and we wanted ‘ to sell out and go home.’ 

“ His idea of ‘ dog cheap ’ was two dollars, although 
he tried hard to get three. At last we found a woman 
who confessed that she was out of wood, and must 
get some soon, but said she was too poor to buy 
cord- wood, and then hire a man to cut it. 

“ Medad convinced her that it would be much bet- 
ter for her to buy ours already cut. 

“ ‘But I haven’t got three dollars in the world!’ 



The Loau of Wood. Page 21 6 . 



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THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


217 


she said. * I^m really poor, dreffle poor I If youll 
throw off half your load into my shed, I’ll give you 
a dollar and a half.’ 

^ Can’t do that, nohow,’ said Mede ; ^ for nobody 
then will want to buy the other half. I should think 
not ! ’ he said to me, aside, with a comical grimace. 

“ ‘ Will you trust me for the other dollar and a 
half? ’ she asked. ^ I am Mrs. Ober — Widow Ober ; 
everybody knows me.’ 

“ That didn’t suit my cousin’s views, either. 

“ ^ Tell ye what,’ he said ; ^ give me two-and-a- 
quarter now, and you shall have the load. It’s too 
little, but we’ve got to get home.’ 

“ Two dollars and twenty cents was all she had, 
and Mede consented to take that. The poor woman 
paid down the money with a heavy sigh, and we 
threw the wood into her shed. 

She offered to hold a lantern for us ; but we were 
glad enough to dispense with that luxury. I don’t 
know when she discovered what a small pile the 
wood made, which looked so large in our wagon, — 
certainly not until after we were gone ; for she came 
to the door as we backed around, said she was very 
much obliged to us, and bid us good-night. 

“ ^ That’s the way to do it I ’ said my cousin, on the 
way home. ^ We’ll sell the other two loads just at 
dusk.’ 

^‘I didn’t say much. I was feeling sick. And 
when he gave me my share of the ^ plunder,’ as he 
called it, — and plunder indeed it was, — it was with 


218 


THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


a strange sense of loathing that I put it into 
pocket. After all my anticipations of pleasure in 
receiving money fairly earned, that was the mis- 
erable result. Instead of a sweet satisfaction’, noth- 
ing but remorse and disgust I 

found that my cousin did not feel just right 
about the transaction, either. ‘ If we had shaved the 
sharp old deacon,’ he said, ^ ’twould have been a good 
joke, though it wols almost too hard on the widder.’ 

He was, somehow, different from me. He hard- 
ened his heart against all compunctions, which I 
could not do. I didn’t like to talk about our success^ 
as my father called it, after we got home, and went 
to bed at night miserable enough. 

I did not see Medad again until the next after- 
noon, when he came over to talk about taking an- 
other load of wood to town. 

‘ If we take any more,’ I said, ^ it must be hon- 
estly loaded, or I’ll have nothing to do with it. It 
was an awfully mean thing we did yesterday.’ 

He laughed foolishly, and said he guessed I was 
right about it. ^ I’m sick of the business, any way,’ 
he said. ‘ Let your father take the rest, and give us 
what he thinks it’s worth.’ 

“So ended our wood speculation,” Uncle Asa 
added. “ I’ve quite forgotten what father gave us ; 
indeed, that was a matter of no consequence, com- 
pared with what I made out of the load we sold the 
widow.” 

“ But I don’t see that you made much out of that,” 
said Charley, 


THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


219 


“ Ah, but I did, though I I made something better 
than the most brilliant fortune ever achieved. I’ll 
tell you how. 

“I had it in me, you see, to be a little — or, per- 
haps you will say, a good deal — dishonest. And if 
I had begun in a different way, I might have gone 
on cheating more and more all my life, until 1 should 
have quite forgotten there was such a thing as con- 
science. But, luckily, I overdid the thing at the 
start. 

“ I can never describe the shame and misery I felt 
in consequence of that trick we played off on poor 
Mrs. Ober. The very sight of split wood sickened 
me long afterwards. I got no comfort out of my 
share of the money she paid us ; I hadn’t the heart 
to spend it, and it was a source of bitter recollec- 
tion to me while I kept it. 

Then you may be sure that it was anything but 
a relief to me to hear — as I did the following 
spring — that the poor woman was actually in want. 
I was at the town meeting when I accidentally heard 
the matter spoken of. ‘ Why can’t she get along ? ’ 
one man asked another ; ‘ she works hard.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said the other ; ^ and she’s saving, in her 
way. But she don’t know how to make a trade, and 
anybody can cheat her. You would think it must 
be somebody pretty mean that would take advantage 
of a poor widow with six children ; but there are 
just such wretches in the world, I’m sorry to say.’ 

“ I didn’t care to hear any more. I went straight 


220 


THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


home, took out of the till of my chest the dollar ani 
ten cents I had kept there all this time, folded the 
money in a letter, on which I wrote, ^From a friend,^ 
addressed it to Mrs. Ober, and mailed it that very 
night. 

“ After that a part of the load was taken off from 
my conscience. But I could find strength and peace 
of mind only in a resolution which I had already 
formed, and which was fairly burned into my soul by 
what I had overheard at the town meeting. 

That resolution was, never in all my life to resort 
to dishonesty of any kind, no matter what the seem- 
ing necessity, or the temptation. 

It is a resolution 1 have never broken. It basnet 
kept me poor, either. I am not very rich ; and yet I 
believe I am better off to-day than I should be if I 
had been dishonest. I have always enjoyed a repu- 
tation for fair-dealing ; and the result has been that 
my worldly prosperity has been solid to the core. 

But, boys, that is nothing compared with the 
satisfaction of always feeling that my gains were 
fairly earned, and that I had helped others while 
helping myself. A few thousands, more or less, are 
of no importance. But, 0 my boys, peace of mind is 
all-important.’’ 

“ And Medad Prank — what ever became of him?” 
Charley inquired. 

“ I can’t say that Medad took the lesson so seri- 
ously to heart as I did. He has always had the 
reputation of being a little tricky. Life has been 


THE LOAD OF WOOD. 


221 


a scramble with him — a scramble for riches. And 
it was thought at one time that he had a large for- 
tune ; but it burst like a bubble in ’seventy-three, 
and he has been scrambling in the old way ever 
since. 

‘‘ I was the only one who really made anything out 
of that LOAD OF WOOD.’’ 


THE GOOSE RACE. 


Phil Aiken^s Story. 

I WAS always racing with Ned. I mean Ned 
Hickleby. He is my cousin, you know. 

He and I were babies together, and our first race 
was a creep. The prize — a rattle-box placed on the 
floor — was the goal we ran for. I won it. Uncle 
George — who put us up to it, one Thanksgiving 
day — says I came out half a pinafore ahead. 

^^Sich tall creepin’ I never see in all my born 
days ! ’’ says he. Didn’t you scramble ! Jest as 
you, Phil, grabbed the rattle, Ned he grabbed your 
toe, and give it sich a bite ! I knowed then Twould 
be nip-and-tuck with you through life,” says my 
Uncle George. 

Then we were always racing, as we grew up, — to 
see which would touch the school-house door first ; 
to see which would coast to the foot of Grimes’s Hill 
first, — both starting at the foot, and drawing up our 
sleds ; to see which would climb a tree, or come 
down a tree, quickest. Once Ned came down so 

222 


PHIL AIKEN^S STORY. 


223 


fast he broke his arm, and he declared he beat ; but 
I said he didn’t, for falling wasn’t fair. 

Then there were races on skates. And of course 
we raced horses as soon as we began to ride, and 
many a tumble we got before we had learned to hold 
on well. 

It was the same thing in school, which we seemed 
to regard as only a sort of race-course. My chief 
motive for studying — and I did study hard — was 
to get above Ned ; and I don’t know that it once 
entered my mind that spelling had any use, except 
as a game to beat him at. 

This honest rivalry — for we were always the best 
of friends through it all — served to make good run- 
ners and riders and skaters of us, — swimmers and 
rowers too, I may say, for many a race was on or in 
the water. Rowing was a good joke, since we had 
but one boat between us. He pulled an oar on one 
side, I pulled on the other, and the fun was, to see 
which could pull the other round. As our pulling 
was about equal, it generally sent the boat straight 
ahead ; and as we never stopped to look where we 
were going, once we went aground smash into the 
old goose-pen, where Aunt Luce was getting eggs, 
and scared her so she broke a whole apronful, and 
darted out through the slats over the top of the pen 
like a circus- woman through a hoop, Ned said. An- 
other time we went over the dam, and got an awful 
ducking. 

His folks lived in one end of the old house, and 


224 


THE GOOSE RACE. 


my folks lived in the other end ; and they used to 
find our habit of racing come handy, when there was 
a good stroke of boys’ work to be done. They 
would set us at two churns, and see which would 
fetch the butter first. Then, of course, the one that 
could husk more baskets of corn in a day, or pile up 
more wood, than the other, was always the “ best 
feller.” 

We had tried almost every imaginable style of 
race, — we had had dog races and cat races, and 
once we had an ox race ; Ned rode old Brindle and 
I rode old Bright, and they got off the course, 
and ran with us into the woods, and brushed us off, 
and gave us such a scratching and bruising gen- 
erally that we never wanted to try that sport again. 

Then one day Uncle George, — who liked the fun 
as well as we did, and never cared who beat, for he 
could brag of the winner, and say, “ That ’ere little 
nephew o’ mine, he’s awful smart I” no matter which 
of us it was, — one day he asked us why we never 
had a goose race.” 

“ What’s a goose race ? ” says Ned. 

Didn’t ye never hear of a goose race?” says 
Uncle George. “ Wal, the’ ’s suthin’ fer ye to larn 
yit, in the sportin’ line. Jest see which ’ll dig out 
fust on these ’ere rows o’ puttaters; then I’ll tell ye.” 

So Ned and I dug as if for dear life, and I got out 
first, though he declared I didn’t dig fair, and, to 
prove it, went back and found patotoes in the ground 
I had gone over, which I offset by finding about as 


PHIL Aiken’s story. 


225 


many in his hills. Uncle George, who sat on a barrel 
at the end of the rows, and watched us, as umpire, — • 
which was a good deal easier than doing the work 
himself, — said neither had won, and we must try 
again. Then, as the result was still doubtful, he 
said we had better take two barrels, and pick the 
potatoes up, and see which would get the most; and 
I’ll be talkin’,” says he. 

I don’t remember which beat on the potatoes, but 
I do remember what he told us about the goose race. 

You’ve your two flocks you’ve been raisin’,” says 
he. Ned has sartin got the most geese ; but Phil 
stands to ’t that his’n are the biggest. Now pick 
out, each on ye, eight or ten o’ yer smartest geese, 
and see which can drive acrost the pond fust.” 

“ In the water. Uncle George ? ” 

Of course, in the water, if it’s acrost the pond.” 

But how can we ? ” 

That’s the p’int I’m goin’ to explain. Fust place, 
harness up yer geese, each in his own way, — there’s 
that coarse twine we had fer tyin’ up wool, shearin’ 
time; ye can have that, — and see which ’ll beat 
makin’ the harnesses. Take, say, nine geese apiece, 
four span, and a leader ; or drive three abreast, if 
you like. Then there’s that ol’ molasses-cask, we’ll 
saw that in two, and make ye a couple o’ tubs fer to 
ride in. Then, when you’ve got yer geese well 
harnessed and broke, some Sat’dy arternoon, when 
you’ve worked smart, and ’arnt a play-spell, we’ll 
tackle on to the tubs, — I’ll go in the boat and see 
15 


226 


THE GOOSE RACE. 


fair play, — an’ the one that gits his team an’ tub 
an’ himself acrost the pond quickest, shall have my 
ol’ six-bladed jack-knife.” 

The six-bladed knife had been our wonder and 
envy as long as we could remember. Yet the idea 
of the race itself was sufficiently exciting, without 
the offer of so splendid a prize. 

We set to work at once making harnesses ; and 
what a squawking there was in the old goose-pens, 
at odd spells, for about a week ! 

Boys ! boys ! what are ye . about ? ” says my 
father, or some one of the folks, whenever a fresh 
goose was caught. 

^^The boys are doin’ well enough,” says Uncle 
George ; ‘‘ jest let ’em alone ,* I know what they ’re 
up to.” 

My way was, when I caught a goose, to harness it, 
all ready for the great occasion, and then let it go 
again, till wanted. Ned did the same ; and in a few 
days our flocks presented the drollest appearance, — 
all the biggest old geese waddling about or swim- 
ming in the water, with twine harnesses on. They 
generally picked hard at the strings at first ; and 
Dick — the old gander I had selected for a leader — 
pulled his breast-strap apart twice, before the race 
came off. Didn’t he stretch up his long neck, and 
open his bill, and tell the others what he had done, 
with a jubilant laughing and cackling, each time ! 

Of course the sight of our geese harnessed at- 
tracted attention, and made a good deal of fun ; and 


PHIL AIKEN’S STORY. 


227 


everybody wanted to know when the race was 
coming off. 

“ Ned,” I said, the thing ’s goin’ to be pop’lar.” 

Yes ; but,” says he, shaking his head, “ we have 
all the work, and t’other fellers think they’re goin’ to 
see the fun for nothin’.” 

We thought that wasn’t fair; so we concluded to 
charge a small fee for admission to the race-ground. 
Accordingly, one morning the following Notice ap- 
peared, chalked on the end of the barn, with four 
long and not very straight lines drawn about it, to 
attract attention from the street : 

GREAT GOOSE RACE! 
to Come Off Saturday afternoon ! 

9 geese on a side to he driven hy 
Mb. Edward Hickleby and Mr. Phil Aiken 
who Will Ride in Tubs ! ! ! 
best place to See is from Aiken's shore 
which will be Reserved for The Ockasion 
admission inside the Goose Fence 
2 cents ! 

under 5 years old Half price 
no peaking through cracks nor climin over 
Publick Are Invited 
NO HUMBUG 

Uncle George helped us a little about the wording 
of this Notice, but the spelling and penmanship — or 
chalkmanship — were all our own. 

Uncle George also suggested the idea of having 
each a couple of boys to help us at starting. For a 
goose is a goose, you know ; and, though ours were 


228 


THE GOOSE RACE. 


tame enough, we hadn^t given much time to break- 
ing them, and we expected they would prove a little 
unmanageable. “ There’s plenty o’ boys that’ll jump 
at the chance to pay their admission fee that way,” 
says Uncle George. 

We liked the idea, but were careful to select such 
boys as we thought had no money, in order not to 
diminish the proceeds of the show. As it turned 
out, Ned chose one, Tom Hobart, who afterwards 
held out, at a safe distance, in his grimy paw two 
coppers, which he said his grandmother had given 
him for the great holiday. Ned was very much dis- 
gusted, and wished to swap him off for Bob Smart, 
who, we were quite sure, couldn’t pay ; but it was 
too late, — Tom held us to the engagement ; and we 
lost two cents by that unlucky choice. 

Saturday afternoon came, and so did the Pub- 
lick,” and we had thirty-four cents (seventeen spec- 
tators) inside the goose-fence before two o’clock. 
We had made Bob Smart doorkeeper. The “ Pub- 
lick ” generally behaved very well, though there was 
a good deal of “ peaking through cracks,” and, at the 
crisis of the race, a grand rush over the fence and 
through the gate, spite of all Bob could do. Then 
we lost money in consequence of the show being 
open on the side of the pond. 

“ There’s twelve cents in that old boat of Jones’s,” 
says Ned, — for we reckoned everybody as cash that 
day. Then we noticed eight cents on one raft, and 
six cents on another, and two cents paddling about 
on a log. 


PHIL AIKEN’S story. 


22S 


We had a great time getting our goose-teams 
ready. We had to take them across the pond, to 
begin with, so as to start from the other side. It’ll 
be easier to drive ’em towards home than from it,” 
says Uncle George. I caught mine in the pen, — 
each with its separate harness on, you know, — and 
handed them to Sam Baker, who handed them to 
Link Griffin, who put them into my tub. There were 
slats nailed over the top of the tub, to keep them in. 
When they were all in, the last slat was made fast, 
and the tub was launched. Ned had his ready at 
about the same time, for he could never bear to be 
behind me in anything. Then we took the tubs in 
tow, — Uncle George and Ned and I and our “sec- 
onds,” as we called the boys that helped, — and 
rowed over in the boat to the starting-place, across 
the pond. 

There was a great rush of outsiders to the spot, 
almost before we had landed. “ There’s at least 
twenty-five cents running around loose ! ” says Ned, 
bitterly. We found some of these unpaying spec- 
tators of use, however, in helping us tackle up. 

That was no small job. Link tended the tub, and 
handed out the geese by the necks ; Sam and I tied 
them together ; and the other fellows held them 
after they were tied. Ned hitched up three abreast ; 
but 1 drove four span, with Dick for a leader. The 
slats were taken off my tub, the goose-team was 
fastened to it, and I got into it. There was a good 
deal of delay, which made the paying spectators on 


230 


THE GOOSE RACE. 


the other side regret that they had not saved their 
money and gone over for a free sight to the shore 
we started from. But at last we were ready, — Ned 
and I afloat in our tubs, and the geese in the water, 
with boys in rolled-up trousers-legs on each side of 
the teams, trying to keep them straight, till the word 
was given to let go. 

I should add that Ned and I had each a long, stiff 
switch, to drive with. We had tow-string reins, too, 
but they were more for show than use. I had had a 
little previous practice in my tub, and found what a 
ticklish thing it was to navigate it. If I leaned too 
much on one side, over it would go. To make the 
voyage safely, I had learned that the only way was 
to stand on my knees, or sit on my heels, as near the 
centre as I could. 

At last the moment came, — the great moment'. 
Uncle George fired off a pistol, which was the signal 
for starting. The boys in the rolled-up trousers-legs 
stepped back ; and the race was begun ! 

I made a fine start, — my four span and leader all 
in a line, and drawing well. Perhaps the enthusias- 
tic cheering and hand- clapping on the shore behind 
us helped to get them off. But as that noble burst 
of applause died away, it was taken up and echoed 
by the fellows on the rafts and in Joneses boat, and 
on our shore, and the good effect was lost. The 
geese had by this time found out that there was 
something wrong. They didn’t understand pulling 
in harness. They tried to scatter, but were held 


PHIL AIKEN’S STORY. 


231 


together by the strings. Then Dick, the leader, 
stopped, faced about, put up his neck, uttered a loud 
squawk, and finally put back towards the shore, fol- 
lowed by the four span. I headed him off with my 
long switch, and my seconds,” rushing into the 
water, frightened him ; but this did not prevent him 
from doubling on his course, and trying to cross 
between the hindmost span and the tub I He got 
caught in the traces, and I reached over the side of 
the tub, and took him by the neck, and turned him 
round again. Then he gave another squawk, spread 
his wings, and tried to fly ; all the rest following his 
example. For a minute I didn’t know but I should 
be carried in the tub over the pond ; but I wasn’t ; 
the flying was a failure. At last the team settled 
down to practical work, and did some good honest 
swimming. 

Then I looked to see how Ned was getting along. 
He had made even a better start than I did ; but 
now he was having his trouble. Nobody would have 
supposed that he had started with three abreast. 
Two or three geese had got over the traces ; one was 
headed towards the tub, and looking up at him with 
the funniest expression of countenance ; and two or 
three were trying to get away by diving. All I 
could see of them was just their tails tipped up out 
of the water. 

At last we were all right, with Uncle George and 
our seconds following us in the boat. If any of our 
geese tried to go in the wrong direction, we just 


232 


THE GOOSE RACE. 


put out our whips and stopped them. At first 
it was — 

“ Get up, Dick ! '' 

Go ’long, Nance I ” 

Take care, Fanny ! ” 

Gee, gee, you goose ! gee I 

At the same time we clucked and flourished reins 
and whip, jockey fashion. But in the ardor of the 
race, we soon came down a little from that high 
style, and the cry was slwo ! SHOO I SHOO ! while 
we lashed the water, to frighten the silly things into 
greater speed. 

Sometimes Ned was ahead, and sometimes I was. 
The excitement was tremendous I There had been 
a good deal of betting on the result ; no money was 
up,” I believe ; but pins, pop-guns, and several pints 
of peanuts were destined to change hands ” before 
that day’s sun went down. But there were many 
purely disinterested spectators, who cheered us both 
alike, and, at every mishap we encountered, filled 
the air with shrieks of laughter. One fellow on a 
raft laughed till he tumbled off into the water, and 
came near being drowned. 

One of my geese broke away before I had got 
half across the pond. But Ned met with a worse 
misfortune, for one of his, in diving, got entangled 
in the traces, and was towed by one leg backwards 
the rest of the way. 

The excitement reached its height when we were 
within about four rods of the goose-pens. Our 



Thk Goose-Race. Rage 232. 










PHIL AIKEN’S STORY. 


233 


teams then began to be frightened at the spectators 
on the shore, and we had to shoo and lash the water 
furiously to get them along. Finally the two flocks 
started to swim towards each other, for refuge and 
s^^mpathy. Ned was struggling desperately to get 
his ahead, out of my reach, when suddenly I heard a 
great shout, and looked to see what had happened, 
and there was Ned in the water with his geese. He 
had leaned a little too much on the side of his tub, 
and it had capsized. I was laughing so hard at him 
that I quite forgot what I was about, and over I went 
too. Then there was a scramble for the shore, — 
geese and drivers and tubs. 1 hardly knew who 
beat, until I heard a general shout. 

“ Phil Aiken I hurrah ! hur-r-a-a-ah ! ” 

I had just got my team ashore, and pulled up 
my tub. Ned was still in the water. Then all my 
friends gathered about me, and shook my wet hand, 
and congratulated me ; and Uncle George, having 
decided in my favor, presented me with the six- 
bladed knife, on the spot. This was his speech : 

little fun now an’ then don’t hurt nobody. 
We’ve all had a share o’ the fun ; and my smart 
nephew here, he has won the prize. Here it is, 
Phil, here’s the knife. You done well. Ned done 
well too ; an’ he might ’a’ beat, if his geese hadn’t 
got into a tangle. Keep on, boys, keep on ; never 
tire o’ well-doin’, and like as not some day you’ll be 
runnin’ fer Congress together ; who knows ? ” 


THE WIDOW’S GOLD. 


Peter Wescott’s Story. 

T here are a great many dull boys who would 
show plenty of talent, perhaps even genius, if 
it could be called out of them. They are stupid 
at their studies or their work, because the right 
teacher or the right thing has never yet aroused 
their interest. 

I was something such a boy myself. At school, 
my lessons did not seem real to me. I recited them 
mechanically, without much idea of their meaning. 
But suddenly, when I was fourteen, my mind took a 
turn. 

And what do you suppose first awakened my in- 
terest? An arithmetical puzzle in a weekly news- 
paper ! 

I showed it to my friends. They could not solve 
it. I took it to my teacher. He ciphered at it in 
vain. Still I could not give it up ; and at last, by a 
method of my own, I worked out the answer. 

Arithmetic was from that day a new thing to me ; 

234 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


235 


and algebra — what a delightful world it opened to 
my young mind ! 

I shouldn’t wonder,” I said, if there is some- 
thing in grammar, too.” 

And, indeed, the old rules, which I could never 
before understand, now appeared full of meaning. 

But I never found out in what direction my pecul- 
iar talent lay until some years afterward. One per- 
son has a genius for poetry ; another is a marvellous 
chess-player ; a third has an intuitive knowledge of 
music or of mathematics. My peculiar gift lies in 
working out puzzles. 

Not newspaper puzzles, like that which first roused 
my mental powers, but problems of human nature 
and life. To read faces, to follow clews so faint that 
they seem invisible to others, to get at human mo- 
tives and to reveal secrets, often by a process which 
I cannot myself explain, — by a sort of intuition, — 
this is my forte, if I have any. 

And how did I first discover that I possessed such 
faculties ? That is what I am going to tell you. 

I was then living with my mother in a small 
wooden house on Warren Street. I had one sister, 
whose name was Marcia. We had lost our father 
three years before. 

We had a little property. I was at work in a 
hardware store. By economy and good manage- 
ment my mother was just able to make both ends 
meet. 

One of the best things we owned in those days — 


236 


THE widow’s gold. 


for it was during the war, when the premium on gold 
was rising — was seven hundred dollars in that pre- 
cious coin. At the particular time I speak of, that 
seven hundred was already worth about a thousand 
dollars in greenbacks. 

My mother was a nervous, anxious woman. She 
was afraid we might lose everything by the war ; 
and nothing could induce her to let me dispose of 
that gold. 

Oh, no, Peter,’^ she would say. “ Gold is the 
only real money, these times. Better lose the inter- 
est on it than run the risk of losing the principal it- 
self, as we might if the war proves a failure, and 
paper money keeps on depreciating.’^ 

Our gold was locked up in the safe of a friend of 
my father, — a man in whom we had always placed 
great confidence. But one day I heard startling 
rumors about him. He had been in some unlucky 
speculations ; he was in great distress for money, and 
his honesty was suspected. 

I thought his safe a very WTisafe place for our gold, 
and went right over to his office that afternoon, and 
asked him for it. 

The rumors proved to have been well founded; 
and yet I had no trouble in getting the gold. It was 
I who had left it with him ; and he handed it back to 
me in the same little stout leather bag in which he 
had received it. 

My mother had before told me that she thought 
we ought to relieve him of the care of the money, 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


237 


and make a special deposit of it in some bank. This 
I intended to do before letting her know that it had 
been in danger. But it was after banking hours when 
I took the gold, and so I carried it home with me. 

I was pretty careful not to tell her that I had it. 
She could never have slept a wink as long as she 
knew the gold was in the house. 

But I knew a good place to hide it, where, as I 
said to my sister Marcia, nobody would ever think 
of looking for it, and where it would not burn up. 

There was a broken place in the cellar-wall of our 
house, where, by removing a stone, I could thrust 
my arm into a deep cavity. I had found that out 
before. And I had often thought the gold would be 
safer there than anywhere else, — even in the vaults 
of a bank. But my mother’s nervousness had pre- 
vented me from putting it there. 

The only danger now,” I thought, “ is that some- 
thing may happen to me. If I should die suddenly, 
nobody would know what I had done with the gold.” 

And it was to guard against such a mischance that 
I took Marcia into my confidence. 

That was Saturday night, and the gold had to stay 
in the house over Sunday. By Monday I had be- 
come quite accustomed to having it there, and only 
my unwillingness to deceive my mother in anything 
caused me to go that day to the bank, and see what 
arrangements I could make for a special deposit. 

The bank consented to receive the gold, and I 
promised to deposit it the next morning. 


238 


THE WIDOW^S GOLD. 


I got my dinner down town, and did not go home 
until evening. Then — as I had done two or three 
times before since the gold had been there — I saun- 
tered into the cellar, to see that my treasure was safe. 

It was rather dark under the stairs, where I had 
hidden it ; but I knew the way too well to need a 
lamp. I felt for the loose stone. To my amazement, 
there was no loose stone there ! I ran my hand 
along the wall for the broken place, and found every- 
thing solid. From top to bottom, a complete wall ! 

It was an astounding mystery. For a minute, the 
broken place, the loose stone, the cavity behind it, 
and the hidden gold, all seemed to have been a 
dream, out of which I was just awakened. 

The shock made me dizzy and faint. By the time 
I had regained my wits a little, my eyes had got used 
to the darkness, and they confirmed the discovery 
of my hands. It was a perfect wall, laid in mortar, 
smooth and clean ; and it was hard to believe there 
had ever been a hole under the stairs. 

I guessed what had happened. I went up for a 
lamp, in the faint hope of still finding the gold. I re- 
turned with the light, and then saw plainly, by the 
appearance of the stones and the cement, that the 
wall had been freshly patched. I searched every 
corner for my little leather bag, hoping that it had 
been taken out and cast aside ; but in vain. I felt 
sick. 

When I went up- stairs again, my mother met me 
with a smile. 


PETER WESCOTT^S STORY. 


239 


“ Have you seen what the masons did to-day ? ’’ 
she said, while I tried to look as unconcerned as pos- 
sible. 

“ What masons ? I replied. 

Two men Mr. Orvis sent here/^ 

Mr. Orvis was our landlord. My mother went on, 
never suspecting with what horrible doubt and anx- 
iety I waited for her explanation. 

“ More than a year ago,’' she said, “ I spoke to 
him about that bad place in the wall under the stairs, 
and he promised to have it mended. But I thought 
he had forgotten all about it. Why, my son,” she 
exclaimed, reading something in my face, what is 
there wrong about it ? ” 

“ I did not know,” I replied, trying to speak care- 
lessly, that you had ever spoken to Mr. Orvis.” 

Perhaps 1 neglected to tell you,” she said, “ for 
I didn’t think it a matter of much consequence. Do 
you blame me ? ” 

Oh, no,” I said. How many men were there ? 
How long were they about it ? ” 

By a few such questions, I learned from my 
mother that there were two men : that the first came 
at about nine o’clock, and examined the wall ; that 
he then went away, and the second came in about an 
hour, bringing tools and materials in a wheelbarrow ; 
that he had already commenced work when the first 
returned ; that they finished the job and went away 
together before noon. 

What sort of men were they ? ” I inquired. 


240 


THE widow’s gold. 


The one who came first,” she said, seemed tc 
be an American. The other was an Irishman. But 
why do you ask so particularly ? Have they stolen 
anything ? ” 

That I don’t know,” I replied. I suppose they 
had a chance to steal, and it’s well enough to know 
something about them, in case we should miss any- 
thing. Who let them in ? ” 

I let them in,” she said, for Bridget was busy 
with her washing.” 

By the back way, of course.” 

“ Yes ; both came and went by the back way. 
After the second one came, the side-cellar door was 
left open, and they went in and out as they pleased. 
I sincerely trust,” said my mother, growing alarmed, 
that they have not taken anything ! ” 

“ Probably they have not,” I said. 

I hoped, indeed, that my treasure was safely walled 
up in the cavity in which it had been hidden. That 
might well be if the men had been careful to rebuild 
only the face of the wall. 

But there was a terrible riddle before me to be 
solved, and I hardly knew how to go about it. If the 
money was stolen, both men might have taken it to- 
gether, or either might have had a chance to secure 
it without the knowledge of his companion. 

I determined to find out first whether the money 
was still in the wall. But that was no easy thing 
to do without disturbing my mother. 

Once more I took my sister Marcia into my coun* 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


241 


sel. She was at school when the masons were at the 
house, and I found that she knew nothing of the mis- 
chief that had been done, until I told her. 

“ Now,'^ said I, that wall has got to come down 
again this evening. Mother must be away. Think of 
some call she has talked of making, and get her out 
of the house.’^ 

We carried out that plan ; and at half-past seven 
I had the satisfaction of seeing my mother and sister 
depart from the front door. I had already smuggled 
an iron bar into the cellar; and as soon as I was 
alone in the house — for Bridget was out for the 
evening — I took a light and went to my task. 

I set my lamp on a barrel, and attacked the wall 
with a crowbar. I was working furiously, breaking 
the cement and prying out the stones, my coat off, 
my hair flying at every stroke, and the sweat pour- 
ing down my face, when a sudden exclamation caused 
me to look up. 

My mother stood on the stairs, gazing at me with 
an expression of fright and horror I shall never for- 
get. 

She thought me insane, and no wonder. The 
broken wall had but just been restored, and there 
I was tearing it down again I 

My son, what are you doing ? ” she said. 

I trembled, stared, and stammered : 

** Nothing, only just breaking the wall a little.” 
Breaking the wall, my son I For mercy^s sake, 
what for ? ” she said. 

16 


242 


THE widow’s gold. 


I thought first of telling her that I had reason to 
believe the cat was walled up, — that I had heard 
her mew. But pussy was at that moment on the 
stairs. Besides, I couldn’t lie to my mother. 

No ; I had been caught in the act, and there was 
only one thing to do. I told her everything. 

Overcome by her agitation, she sat down on the 
stairs and heard my story. It was a relief to her to 
know that I wasn’t crazy. Perhaps it was that 
which enabled her to bear so well the possible loss 
of the gold. 

I went with Marcia to call on Mrs. Burns,” she 
exclaimed, in her turn. She was away ; so I thought 
we had better come home. As soon as I got into the 
house, I heard a strange pounding, and came down 
here and found you.” 

There was no longer any concealment. She did 
not blame me for what I had done, — for she knew 
it was to spare her anxiety of mind ; but how bit- 
terly I regretted having hidden the gold in the cel- 
lar without her knowledge I 

She now held the light for me while I finished 
breaking out the wall. I made a much larger hole 
than had been there before. I pried out stone after 
stone, cleared away the rubbish again and again, felt 
with my hand, and searched with the lamp, a dozen 
times or more, till at last I gave it up. 

There was no gold there ! 

Then the masons must have taken it, — one or 
both of them. 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


243 


This conclusion arrived at, my mother insisted on 
putting the matter into the hands of a lawyer we 
knew ; and after the sad piece of business I had 
made by doing things in my own way, I could not 
oppose her. 

I hastened to bring Mr. Walsh to the house, and 
went with him that very evening to see our land- 
lord, and get on the track of the masons. The next 
morning I had to go to the store, and the lawyer was 
left to work up the case alone. 

At noon, I got leave of absence for the rest of the 
day, and went home. Mr. Walsh was at the house, 
and I heard him make his report to my mother. 

He had seen the two masons, both of whom denied 
all knowledge of the gold. 

The American, he said, is a man of the name 
of Worth, intelligent, and apparently honest. He 
looked me in the face, with a perfectly simple, can- 
did expression. He said he did not find the gold, 
and did not think it probable the other man did. 
^ He could hardly have carried ofi* a bag like that/ 
said he, * without my knowing it.^ 

“ I found the Irishman a different sort of fellow. 
His name is Crowley, a rough, violent fellow. As 
soon as I explained to him the matter, he fell to de- 
nouncing Worth. * I wouldnT trust him with my old 
pipe/ he said. ^ He was at the wall first, and if he 
saw the gold, of course he stole it.^ ” 

This was the lawyer^s account of the two men. 

And what is your conclusion ? my mother 
asked, as if his word must be law and gospel. 


244 


THE widow’s gold. 


“ At first/’ he said, I thought that either Worth 
must be innoceut, or that both men were guilty. But 
Crowley modified my opinion on the latter point. He 
would hardly have spoken of Worth as he did if they 
had been accomplices. He was altogether too ready 
to denounce his companion as a thief, and for no good 
reason that he could give, either. 

The result has been,” Mr. Walsh added, that 
I have got out search-warrants for both men’s prem- 
ises. It was necessary to treat them both alike ; but 
it’s my opinion the Irishman took the money.” 

Two skilful officers had been engaged, and they 
were to begin with Crowley’s house that afternoon 
at two o’clock. The lawyer was to accompany them, 
and I got permission to go, too. 

I snatched a hasty luncheon, and spent the inter- 
val of time in hunting up the masons and talking 
with them where they were at work. They did not 
know me. I did not allude to the gold. But from 
them and their fellow-workmen I tried to find out 
something of the characters of the two men. 

At the appointed hour, Mr. Walsh, the officers and 
myself, were at the Irishman’s house. Our visit was 
unexpected, and when we made our errand known, 
we were roundly abused by Crowley’s wife. She 
would have prevented the search if she could, 
and she watched jealously and scolded violently 
while it was going on. 

It was thorough, but ineffectual. No gold was to 
be found. I could see that both Mr. Walsh and the 


PETEU WESCOTT^S STORY. 


245 


principal officer were much disappointed. They lin- 
gered, and looked again, — in the bag of meal, in the 
tea-kettle, in the stove, and in the bedding ; then we 
went away, followed by good Mrs. Crowley^s inter- 
jections. 

As you may believe, I watched everything with 
the greatest interest. And in the street, I listened 
eagerly to hear what Mr. Walsh and the officers 
would say. 

All inclined to the opinion that Crowley was the 
thief ; but it was evident that we were no nearer an 
answer to the question, “ What had he done with the 
money ? than we were before. 

He might have hidden it elsewhere ; or it might 
still be secreted about the premises in some nook 
which we had overlooked. 

^‘At any rate,’^ said Mr. Walsh to the officers, 
Crowley must be carefully watched. He won’t 
keep the gold buried forever ; and we must allow 
him no chance to spend or exchange it without ex- 
posing himself. Now we will search Worth’s house ; 
though I, for one, haven’t much hope of finding it 
there.” 

I stepped to the lawyer’s side. 

“ You know best about it,” I said ; but I hope 
the search of Worth’s premises will be as thorough 
as if we felt sure he had the money.” 

“ Certainly, certainly ! ” he replied. But why 
do you speak so earnestly about it ? ” 

Because,” I said, “ I suspect him more than I 
do Crowley.” 


246 


THE widow’s gold. 


He asked my reasons, which I explained to him aa 
we walked on. 

“ And why didn’t you tell me this before ? ” de- 
manded the lawyer. 

“ Because,” I answered, I didn’t want to turn 
your suspicions from the Irishman until his house 
had been searched. Now I firmly believe Worth 
took the gold, and that we shall find it.” 

Before going further, I ought to give my reasons 
for thinking that Worth, the American, and not the 
Irishman, Crowley, carried ofi* my mother’s little 
treasure. 

It will be remembered that he was first at the 
wall, which he examined, and then went away ; that 
Crowley then arrived with a wheelbarrow-load of 
tools and materials, and that he had commenced 
work when Worth returned. 

Thus it appeared that each might have had an op- 
portunity to take the gold hidden in the cavity of 
the wall, without the other’s knowledge. 

But why had Worth gone away after making the 
examination ? 

He had in fact been sent there, not especially to 
make an examination, but to begin work on the 
wall. He began, in fact, — my mother could testify 
to that, for she heard the stones rattle, — but sud- 
denly stopped, and went off. What for ? 

I did not think our lawyer had sufficiently consid- 
ered that circumstance. He had too readily accepted 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


247 


Worth^s explanation, that he had just stepped out to 
smoke his pipe, while waiting for Crowley. 

His house was not far from ours, and he might 
have had time to carry home the gold and return 
during his brief absence. 

If his object had been simply to smoke his pipe, 
he need not have gone out of our back yard. 

But this was only one circumstance against him, 
and a trifling one, perhaps. 

Something more to the purpose I discovered in 
conversing with the two men’s fellow-workmen. 

The lawyer’s suspicions had been diverted from 
Worth and flxed upon Crowley, as has been stated, 
by their manner of speaking of each other. Worth 
had used very temperate and even charitable lan- 
guage regarding Crowley ; while Crowley declared 
that he “ would not trust Worth with his old pipe,” 
— that if Worth had a chance to steal the gold, of 
course he stole it.” 

I thought, with Lawyer Walsh, that Crowley was 
too eager to denounce his companion as a thief. But 
when I learned more about them, that matter ap- 
peared in a different light. 

It seemed that there had long existed a strong 
feeling of jealousy and dislike between the two men, 
and that they never missed a chance to speak ill of 
each other. 

Crowley, then, in abusing Worth, had merely in- 
dulged in his customary language regarding him. But 
Worth had changed his tone, in speaking of Crowley. 


248 


THE WIDOW^S GOLD. 


If his design had been to pass for a kind, candid, 
innocent man, he had certainly succeeded with the 
lawyer. 

I could not tell, as we walked along, how much 
weight these arguments of mine had with Mr. Walsh 
and the officers. 

They smiled rather incredulously. That was nat- 
ural enough ; old heads do not like to admit that 
younger and less experienced ones can teach them 
anything at their own trade. 

From Crowley's house we proceeded directly to 
Worth's, where we met with a different reception. 

Mrs. Worth was very much a lady. She saw at 
once the reasonableness of the proceeding when it 
was explained to her; she did not wish to look at our 
search-warrant, but smilingly threw open her door 
to our little party. 

I, who watched everything closely, and was per- 
haps foolishly suspicious, thought that she was a 
trifle too self-possessed and obliging. And, over- 
flowingly polite as she was, I believe I detected a 
certain nervousness in the muscles about her mouth. 

What I observed was not inconsistent with the 
idea of her innocence. Yet as I looked at her, I 
said to myself: 

Madam, you are acting a part." 

The only other inmate of the house besides her- 
self, at the time, was a big black dog. From the mat 
in the entry, where he lay, he growled savagely at us. 

Get away, Tiger I " Mrs. Worth commanded him, 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


249 


sharply. And as he slunk away with an angry snarly 
she said to Mr. Walsh, “ Tiger is cross, but he never 
bites. Walk right in.’^ 

We wiped our feet as we entered. I was the last. 
Tiger stole back and growled at me ; then, after I 
had passed, coiled himself up on the mat again. 

We were first shown into a neat little sitting-room, 
where there were three or four cane-seated chairs, 
and one haircloth-covered rocking-chair. This she 
offered to Mr. Walsh, urging him in the politest man- 
ner to sit down. He declined. 

‘‘ You’d better be seated,” she insisted. I sup- 
pose it will take some time to make a thorough 
search. Will you begin with the clock? Or the 
book-case ? I suppose you would like to look under 
the carpet ; and perhaps under the floor. You take 
the easy- chair, won’t you ? ” 

She turned smilingly to me. So I sat down and 
made myself comfortable while the room was looked 
through. 

Having satisfied themselves, from the collection of 
ancient dust about the sunken heads of the rusty 
carpet-tacks, that the floor of that room, at least, had 
not been recently disturbed, and examined the walls 
and the furniture, even turning over and thumping 
the seat of the rocking-chair I had been sitting in, 
the officers passed on to other parts of the house. 

Mr. Walsh paused to apologize once more to her for 
the trouble we were making. 

Oh, don’t speak of it I ” she replied. It’s a sat- 


250 


THE widow’s gold. 


isfaction to us to have everything searched. I would 
turn the house inside out for you, if I could. As 
long as a shadow of suspicion rests on my husband, 
I beg of you to keep on 1 I want his good name 
to be cleared.” 

She went with us, opening doors, and explaining 
everything. 

In the cellar were barrels of ashes, which the offi- 
cers thought it would be necessary to have carried 
out and sifted. 

Certainly,” she said. “ Or you can empty them 
right here. I think you can easily find out if there 
is gold in them.” 

She showed this obliging disposition at every 
turn ; and that enabled us to finish the search be- 
fore dark. 

Although the house was larger than the Irishman’s, 
it took us but a little longer time to go through it. 

At last there seemed but one point left to be con- 
sidered. 

The Irishman’s wife had been so dressed that it 
would hardly have been possible for her to have seven 
hundred dollars in gold concealed about her person. 
But Mrs. Worth wore hoops. 

She did not wait for any of us to allude to this cir- 
cumstance. 

You haven’t searched me,” she laughed. 

“ No, ma’am,” said Mr. Walsh. “ We thought we 
might have to call in the wife of one of these oflfi'- 
cers ; but I don’t think it necessary.” 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


251 


" Of course it is necessary,” she declared. “ Or 
1 will go with you to his house. Or perhaps — if 
you will step into the kitchen there a moment — ” 

We did as she suggested. The ^‘moment” was 
brief ; and she stood before us in a gown that hung 
loosely about her limbs. Her hoopskirts lay on the 
floor. 

She shook her clothing lightly, and showed us that 
there could have been no weight of gold concealed 
within it. 

Mr. Walsh thanked her, apologized once more for 
the intrusion, and led the way to the entry. 

“ It’s of no consequence,” she replied. Pm 
sorry you have so much trouble, and I sincerely hope 
the lady will find her money. If everybody was 
honest, what a difierent world it would be ! Get 
out. Tiger I ” 

The dog was in our way again. 

We had hardly reached the door, when I turned 
back. 

“ I’ll thank you for a glass of water,” I said, leav- 
ing Mr. Walsh and the oflScers to walk on, if it is 
not too much trouble.” 

“ No trouble at all,” she replied blandly. Will 
you come in and sit down ? ” 

Thank you,’’ I said ; “ I will wait here.” 

She hesitated, and gave me a quick glance. She 
had been rather pale when we first entered the 
house ; but now there was a faint flush in her 
cheeks. 


252 


THE widow’s gold. 


In a moment she smiled again, and went for the 
water. The pump, which supplied half a dozen fam- 
ilies, was in the yard. She was gone about a min- 
ute. When she brought the glass I took it, looked 
steadily in her eyes, and remarked in a quiet tone : 

‘‘ Madam, I have found the goldy 

Her eyes glistened with the excitement which she 
had so long controlled, and which she tried again to 
disguise with a smile as she replied : 

“ Found it ? Indeed ! Where ? ” 

I am standing on itJ’ 

The mat was under my feet. 

In her brief absence I had examined it, in spite of 
the dog’s uneasy growling, and satisfied myself. 

‘‘ Oh, that is impossible ! ” she exclaimed. 

It was a common-looking mat, made of braided 
rags ; but I had discovered that it was double. Two 
thin mats had been recently quilted together. 

We had all wiped our feet on it ; and the officers 
had even given it a glance. Had it been single, as 
it appeared at first sight to be, nothing could very 
well have been concealed in it. 

But the dog’s peculiar conduct had excited my 
suspicions. He did not seem to be guarding the 
house simply, but to be especially jealous of that mat. 

Had he been told to guard it? Or did his canine 
instinct teach him that it contained something about 
which his master and mistress felt unusual anxiety ? 

‘‘ I will show you, madam,” I said ; and I whipped 
out my knife. 


PETER WESCOTT’S STORY. 


253 


Then for the first time she lost her self-possession. 
Don’t cut that mat I ” she cried, the excitement 
in her eyes flashing into an angry blaze. 

“ But you will not prevent me ? ” I said, inquir- 
ingly ; you, who have been so anxious that the 
search should be thorough ! ” 

Don’t cut that mat ! ” she repeated. If you 
do — !” 

“ What — if I do ? ” I said, calmly as I could, for 
I must own that I, too, was excited. 

I’ll set the dog on you,” she replied. Tiger I ” 

The dog sprang to her side with a growl. 

In that case,” I said, I shall have to call back 
the officers, who are waiting for me on the corner.’' 

Indeed I had whispered to Mr. Walsh, just before 
he went out, that I believed I had found a clue to 
the money, and asked him to leave me alone with the 
woman and wait for me a few minutes. 

He had consented, simply because he was my 
mother’s lawyer ; for it was plain to be seen that 
he had not a particle of faith in my being able to 
make any discoveries. 

I was only a boy j and what could I hope to do, 
after he and two experienced officers had been over 
the ground ? It did seem absurd in me ; but I was 
not to be discouraged from making the attempt. 

Mrs. Worth had supposed that the officers were far 
away by this time, as indeed they were ; though I, 
fortunately, did not know it. Mr. Walsh had not 
even thought it worth the while to wait for me a 
minute. 


254 


THE widow’s gold. 


My confident proposal to call them back, however, 
brought the lady to her senses. 

Excuse me” she said, with something of her 
former sweetness of manner ; “ your party has al- 
ready made so much litter, which I and my husband 
will have to clear up after you, that I couldn’t think 
of your cutting this mat.” 

I was now more than ever convinced that I had 
found the money. But I felt some pride in wish- 
ing to secure it without the help of the lawyer 
and his men, after he had treated me with such con- 
tempt. 

I will not call them back,” I said, provided 
you will take care of your dog.” 

“ Tiger, go and lie down ! ” she ordered him, and 
he obeyed, to my very great relief. 

“ Now,” said I, you will be paid full damages for 
everything injured by us in your house. If the gold 
is not in the mat, you can’t object to my ripping a few 
stitches here and there. But first, put your fingers 
here, and you will confess that there is something 
that feels like a ten-dollar gold-piece.” 

She drew back. “It is very true,” she replied, 
“ there is money in that mat.” 

“ Ah, madam ! ” said I, with a feeling of triumph, 
thinking she was about to make confession. 

But I did not yet know the resources of this auda- 
cious woman. 

“ It has been there a long time,” she added. “ It 
is our own savings. You cannot take that from us.” 


PETER WESCOTT^S STORY. 


255 


I smiled as I said, It seems a very strange sort 
of place to hoard money.^’ 

Not at all,’^ she replied. A great many people 
have walked over that mat, without suspecting what 
was in it. No thief would think of looking for money 
there. I didn’t consider it necessary to mention it 
to your officers ; and you see — detectives as they 
are — they did not find it out.” 

But you see I found it out,” I said. “ Is it gold ? ” 
Yes, the most of it,” she replied. 

“ How much ? ” I asked. 

Something like three hundred dollars,” she an- 
swered. “ My husband has the exact figures. It 
had been accumulating in a savings-bank. But my 
husband thinks the war will drag on till paper money 
is good for nothing ; so we drew out our deposit, 
bought gold with it, and hid it here — for safety,” 
she added, with a smile. 

I asked her the name of the savings-bank, and she 
gave one, after some hesitation. 

“ This story may be verified — or it may not,” I 
said, as I took down the name in my note-book. But 
I think we are going to settle this matter between 
ourselves, madam. That will be better than to call 
in the officers again.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” she asked, with an uneasi- 
ness she could not conceal. 

“ You are very ingenious,” I replied ; “ but your 
story about the savings-bank was an after-thought, 
and an unlucky one. You never drew out so large a 


256 


THE WIDOW^S GOLD. 


sum. This gold is my mother’s. It isn’t all here, as 
you say ; hut I knoiu where the rest is ! ” 

The flush had gone out of her face again. She 
was white and trembling. Without waiting for an 
answer, I went on, speaking earnestly : 

Mrs. Worth, you don’t wish to have your hus- 
band arrested, tried, convicted and sent to prison. 
My mother doesn’t wish it ; she would be extremely 
sorry for you. We know that the temptation was 
great, and we pity him and you.” 

Her eyes filled with tears. I saw that I had 
touched the right chord. I continued, — kneeling 
on the mat, and looking up, through my own gather- 
ing tears, into her pale and frightened face : 

“ You have it in your power to save him. Quietly 
give up my mother’s money, and I promise you that 
nothing more shall be said. But if we have to try 
the law, — why, then, the law must take its course. 
Don’t you see how much better it will be to do as I 
ask you to, for your own sake, Mrs. Worth? ” 

At this appeal she broke down completely. 

‘‘ I don’t wish to keep the money,” she said, but 
I didn’t want you to consider my husband a thief. 
He never stole anything in his life. And he didn’t 
mean to steal this ; but when he found the bag of 
gold, he thought it had been left there by somebody 
who once lived in the house, and who might have 
been dead for years. How could he think it was your 
mother’s, when she herself showed him the place in 
the wall, and let him go to work ? 


PETER WESCOTT’s STORY. 


257 


“ But why did he carry it off ? I inquired. 

“ Because he was afraid somebody — either your 
folks or the landlord — might lay claim to money 
found in the house, even though they had no right 
to it. Then, after we got it, of course we didn’t like 
to own that he had found money in that way and 
planned to keep it.” 

“ He brought it right home to you ? ” I said. 

“ Yes,” she confessed ; and I took care of it 
while he went back to work. That night I sewed 
thirty pieces into the mat, while he ” — she looked 
at me keenly. Do you really know where the rest 
is?” 

I think,” said I, that it is in the bottom of the 
chair you were so anxious to have some of us sit in.” 

“ You are mighty good at guessing,” she replied, 
with a wan smile. 

When I reached home an hour later, it was even- 
ing. I found Lawyer Walsh with my mother, to 
whom he had just been giving an account of the bad 
success of the search. 

She was very much dejected. He scarcely noticed 
my entrance ; but she looked up at me and said : 

Well, what did you discover, my son ? ” 

What I was looking for ! ” I cried, with triumph. 

“ Not — the gold ? ” said the lawyer, with a start. 

“ Yes, the gold ! ” 

And, to the utter amazement of both, I began 
emptying my pockets of the seventy golden eagles, 
17 


258 


THE widow’s gold. 


which made gay music as they jingled on the table, 
I assure you. 

Then I told my story. 

“Well!” exclaimed the lawyer, “you have beat 
us at our own game ! Now, Mrs. Wescott,” he 
added, looking at the glittering pile by the light of 
the lamp on the table, “ I think you had better invest 
this in Government bonds.” 

It was good advice, and my mother followed it. 

With our seven hundred dollars in gold, we soon 
after bought a thousand-dollar bond (registered), and 
had money enough left to pay the costs of the search, 
and of the second rebuilding of the wall. I ought 
to add that Lawyer Walsh brought in but a very 
small bill for his services. 

I must add, too, the most important part to me of 
the whole business. 

A few weeks later I was sent for by Mr. Walsh, 
and very much astonished by the respect he showed 
me and the proposal he made. 

A client of his was involved in what soon after 
became known as the “ Tenant House Affair ; ” and 
he wished me to take lodgings in the building, get 
acquainted with its inmates, and learn, if possible, 
certain facts which had so far baflSed the police. 

I readily agreed, got my mother’s consent, and un- 
dertook the case. How well I succeeded the news- 
papers of those days will tell you. 

This led to my being engaged in other cases ; and 
thus was opened to me an unexpected career. I 



The Seventy Goi.den Eagles. Page 258. 








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PETER WESCOTT^S STORY. 


259 


became a detective, and was employed in some ex- 
tremely difficult and delicate matters while I was 
yet not much more than a boy. 

The fates and fortunes of many men have been in 
my hands ; but this I will say for myself, — that in 
dealing with crime I have never yet stooped to a 
meanness or accepted a bribe. 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


FIEST EVENING. 


DAM Starworthy, a Boston merchant retired 



fS. from business, sat one evening writing a letter 
in his comfortable library, when a bright but bashful 
boy of about sixteen years was shown in. 

The gentleman laid down his pen, turned in his 
easy-chair, and looked curiously but kindly at the 
visitor from under his shaggy gray eyebrows. 

The gaslight shed its warm radiance upon the 
two — the lad of sixteen standing, hat in hand, blush- 
ing and hesitating, and the white-haired merchant 
smiling encouragement and welcome. A fire of soft 
coal blazing in the grate — for it was autumn 
weather — added cheeriness to the picture. 

Luther Emmons,^^ said the old man, repeating 
the name by which the servant had announced the 
visitor. Sit down, my young friend, and tell me 
what I can do for you.^^ Such was Adam Star- 


260 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


261 


worthj^s life-long habit of proceeding straight to 
business. 

You do not remember the name, I suppose,’^ 
Luther replied, gaining confidence, and taking the 
chair that was offered him. It was my father’s. 
Perhaps you do not even remember him j but he had 
good reason to remember you for your kindness 
and — ” 

Here Luther’s rather labored speech, which he 
had studied a little before entering the presence of 
the great man (as he regarded Mr. Starworthy), was 
suddenly broken by an impulse of the heart ; and he 
added, with a throb of emotion in his voice, My 
father was very grateful to you, sir, and my mother 
made me promise I would come and see you.” 

Luther Emmons — I do remember I ” the old 
man exclaimed ; and for a moment a rush of memo- 
ries made his eyes misty. 

Luther Emmons, the father, had once been a clerk 
in Starworthy & Co.’s employment ; a social, impul- 
sive youth, who had fallen into temptation, and been 
on the verge of ruin, when the senior partner, who 
kept a fatherly watch over his young men, discov- 
ered his guilty secret at a critical moment, and 
instead of disgracing him, as most employers would 
have done, restored him to virtue and self-respect 
by kind words and counsels. 

He used to come and see me when he was in 
town, but I haven’t heard from him now for some 
time.” 


262 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


My father is dead/^ said Luther, in a low voice. 

There was a painful hush for a moment, during 
which the old man watched, with a look full of pain 
and sympathetic emotion, the quivering lip and 
downcast eyes of the boy. 

He was a good man,’’ said old Adam, as soon as 
he could speak cheerfully. ‘‘ Luther was an honest 
man of business, a true friend, and a good husband 
and father, I know. And I hope, I feel sure, he has 
left a worthy son and namesake to fill his place. 
Your mother — you still have your mother left 
you ? ” 

A nod — for Luther could not command his voice 
to speak — gave assent. 

I am glad for your sake, Luther. A mother — 
a good mother — is often a boy’s salvation. The 
love of a mother in his heart may be the pole-star 
of his safety. So she wished you to come and see 
me, did she ? ” 

My father left us a little property,” said Luther, 
coming back to what he had prepared himself to say. 

But it is necessary for me to do something for my- 
self. Some of my father’s friends have got me a 
place in Howarth & Hogan’s dry-goods store. I 
have just begun. I am a stranger in the city, and 
my mother — she is naturally very anxious about 
ne.” 

“And well she may be,” said the merchant, as 
Luther once more hesitated, “ I am glad she sent 
jjTou to me. I know — nobody knows better than 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


263 


I — how much there is for a young man in the city, 
especially if he is a stranger, to learn and to avoid. 
I can give you — I shall be very glad to give you — 
some hints with regard to the life you have entered 
upon, its advantages and its dangers, if you care to 
learn by an old man^s experience.’^ 

^^That is just what I wished, — just what my 
mother hoped,” said Luther, earnestly. “ Only don’t 
let me take up too much of your time.” 

“ My dear boy, I am never so grateful for the bless- 
ing of having time at my command as when I can 
bestow it upon the young and inexperienced. You 
are now just beginning a life that I have lived 
through. I look back to the time when I was a lad, 
commencing at the lowest rounds of the business 
ladder, but full of hope, like you. 

Well, here I am, at the top of the ladder, so to 
speak. I have met with what is called success. 
But my real success — if I have ever achieved 
any — is not what the world sees. It is nothing 
that I saw very clearly when I was a boy of your 
age. 

^*It takes a lifetime to learn the true value of 
things. Kiches are good. Prize them, acquire them, 
my boy, if you honestly can ; but they are not the 
end ; they are only a means. The true end is forma- 
tion of character ; it is integrity of heart ; it is hap- 
piness for yourself, and the blessed power of doing 
good to others. 

“ That is the end always to be kept in view j and 


264 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


- — remember ! — it may be reached without wealth, 
while it can never be attained through wealth un- 
fairly won. You may barter away your own con- 
science and manhood for riches, and heap them up, 
heap them up, while you are really growing poorer 
every day. Nobody so poor as a hollow-hearted, 
selfish, scheming, unscrupulous millionnaire. You 
won^t quite understand this now, but it is no senti- 
mental talk, it is solid truth, as you will find some 
day.’^ 

The old man smiled, and changed the subject. 

How much do you get at Ho worth & Hogan^s ? ’’ 

“ One hundred dollars the first year,^’ Luther re- 
plied. 

“ Can you live on that ? ” 

Oh no. Mother will clothe me and pay something 
towards my board. She is very indulgent. She will 
give me a little spending-money besides.^’ 

Spending-money ? ” said the old man. “ What^s 
that?” 

She thinks I ought to have a little pleasure and 
recreation. She doesnT believe in keeping boys too 
close.” 

Well, she is right; yes, she is right,” the old man 
repeated, yet with a doubtful look. It isnT well to 
keep the young too close ; and yet, Luther, do you 
know, if I were asked what is one great source of 
danger to boys, especially country boys beginning 
life in town, I should say it is that little matter of 
spending-money.” 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


265 


Luther changed countenance, and said, “ How so ? ” 
Because it leads to habits of self-indulgence ; 
because it is a little key that may open the door to 
great vices. A boy has a little spending-money; 
that means something that he is to spend upon him- 
self, as the fancy takes him. 

The trifles he buys with it may be of no impor- 
tance in themselves ; his amusements may be per- 
fectly innocent; and yet, unless he is a very high- 
minded, good-hearted boy, there is danger that he 
will give altogether too much thought to his own 
gratifications, and never know that beautiful virtue, 
that mother of many virtues, self-denial. 

once knew a boy,’' the old man continued, 
who had parents as indulgent as your own mother, 
I suppose ; but they were poor ; and he saw what a 
struggle it was for them to bring up, feed, clothe, 
and educate a family of children, of whom he was 
the third. 

<^He was a thoughtful boy, though only twelve 
years old; and one day, hearing his mother say 
what a serious expense the single item of butter was 
in the family, he made up his mind to eat no more 
butter, just to save his parents so much labor and 
care in providing for him. 

He did not say anything about his resolution, 
but from that time until he left home he ate his 
bread without butter, and soon found that bread had 
never tasted so sweet to him. Not that he really 
relished it better unbuttered, but the sense of self- 


266 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


denial for a noble motive sweetened everything in 
life to him. 

“ At thirteen years of age, still further to relieve 
his parents, he got a place in a store. He was too 
young. It would have been well if he could have 
been kept at school four or five years longer ; yet, 
with the habits of self-denial and of self-help which 
he had already formed, he was destined to acquire a 
practical knowledge of affairs which self-indidgent 
boys, with all the advantages of life, never gain. 

He had a little money which he could have spent 
upon himself if he had chosen ; but when he thought 
of his hard-working, careworn parents, he had never 
any desire for petty gratifications. It was far sweeter 
for him to save it for their sakes. 

Now that boy was better off, and infinitely hap- 
pier, with that motive in his soul and that love in his 
heart, than if he had had his pockets full of money 
to spend as he pleased every day of his life. And 
that boy, amid a city full of danger, was safe. His 
purity of purpose, and his habit of self-denial, armed 
him against temptation.” 

Old Adam Starworthy did not say that that boy 
was himself, though from an earnest tremor in his 
voice, and a very grateful, tender look in his eyes, 
Luther suspected the truth. 

“But I am not going to preach to you now so 
much that you won’t care to come and see me again,” 
the merchant resumed, after a pause. “ I want you 
to come again soon, when I will tell you more about 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT, 


267 


that little matter of spending-money, and some of the 
wretchedness and ruin I have known it to lead to. 

** Now we will talk of something else — after I 
have finished my letter. Meanwhile you may be 
looking over my library, and see if there are any 
books you would like to read.’' 


SECOND EVENING. 

** I hope you didn’t infer from anything 1 said the 
other night,” remarked old Adam Starworthy, when 
next his young friend, Luther Emmons, called to see 
him, ** that I would have a young man save his money 
in any mean way, or for any mean purpose.” 

Oh no ! ” replied Luther, frankly. “ I didn’t think 
that. It was the habit of self-indulgence you ob- 
jected to. 1 have thought about it since, and have 
been wishing I could learn to practise self-denial, 
like the boy you told of who didn’t eat butter.” 

“ That was an extreme case,” said the old man, 
with a smile. “ You will probably never feel obliged 
to make any such sacrifice as that. But every per- 
son is called to make some sort of sacrifice in life, 
and it is well to begin with small things, — with the 
^spending-money,’ for instance, which we talked about 
the other night. 

Don’t hoard for the sake of hoarding. But learn 
to value money for its highest use. That highest 
use is not in spending a sixpence here, a sixpence 


268 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


there, a dollar to-day, and a dollar to-morrow, in the 
frivolous pleasures of appetite and fancy. Learn to 
postpone petty present indulgences for future good, 
— for books, for culture, for starting in business, for 
helping others, which the truly wise and generous 
man finds, after all, the sweetest pleasure in life. 

I once knew a boy, about your own age, who 
came to the city, and, like you, found a place in a 
store. He was one of the most promising lads I 
ever knew, — bright, talented, generous. 

^^Unfortunately he had a little spending-money. 
He seemed to think it mean not to spend it. It was 
now a glass of soda, now a dish of oysters in the 
evening ; then ninepins and billiards, and something 
stronger to drink; for this habit of spending had 
soon brought him acquainted with a class of compan- 
ions who did not stop at soda and small beer. 

“ The theatre, of course, came in for its share of 
patronage ; and plays, balls, late hours, and midnight 
carousals, at last absorbed so much of his mind and 
energy that he had little left for his business. 

The store, in which he had at first felt a lively 
interest, became irksome to him. Work, which had 
been a pleasure, became drudgery ; and he lived only 
for the unhealthy excitements, which seemed at last 
as necessary to his existence as rum is to the drunk- 
ard. 

But as the drunkard will not pretend that drink 
is a real good, so this young man would have been 
the last to claim that such a life as he was leading 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


269 


ever was, or ever could be, happy. Happiness is 
something very different, — so pure, so tranquil, so 
deep I But he had formed habits of indulgence 
from which it is not easy to break away. 

And what was the result ? The money he was 
spending was of comparatively little importance, — > 
though that was a serious matter to a young man of 
his prospects. I have forgotten how much sixpence 
a day saved, and put at interest, will amount to in 
forty years ; but it is a small fortune, — enough to 
pay the debts of many a bankrupt who is left penni- 
less in his old age solely in consequence of this habit 
of foolish expenditure. Fortune comes by happy 
accident to but few; while frugality is the plain, 
sure, easy road to competence, open to all. 

But our young friend lost more than the money 
he spent. He was losing his steadiness of mind, the 
opportunities of youth, the chances of ever becom- 
ing a thorough man of business. 

For it was not long before the spending-money 
which was rightfully his proved insufficient for his 
pleasures. He must dress. He must always be as 
generous as his most lavish companions, — as if gen- 
erosity consisted in treating, high living, and making 
a show ! He must take his female acquaintances — 
— some of whom, I am sorry to say, were not what 
they should be — to places of amusement. He must 
make them presents. And where was all the money 
needed for this to come from?’^ 

shouldn’t think such a clerk could keep hia 
place in any store long,’^ said Luther. 


270 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


You are right. A sagacious employer knows by 
the looks of his young men, when they go to their 
business in the morning, whether all is well with them. 

The prompt, bright, cheerful, energetic clerk is 
not suspected. His voice, his eye, his manner, 
towards employer and customer, all attest his good 
habits and devotion to business. But one comes in 
with languid looks, yawoing, rubbing his eyes ; he 
is nervous, irritable, absent-minded ; evidently there 
is something wrong with him. 

The wise employer will not neglect his own in- 
terest and that of his clerk a single day after he 
begins to note such symptoms. 

“ The youth I speak of received an abrupt dis- 
missal, one morning, by his employer, who said, 
angrily, that he didn’t want any gaping, lazy clerks 
around. 

A young man of engaging manners and some 
experience could easily find employment in those 
days. He soon got another situation, at an increased 
salary. His habits of dissipation were not cured. 
He lost his second place, his employers having dis- 
covered that he was in debt. They judged rightly 
that a single man, with a fair salary, who could not 
pay his tailor’s bills, board-bills, even his bills for 
washing and ironing, must be in a bad way. That 
is not the kind of clerk we like to trust. 

^ Oh, but Bob is such a generous, good-hearted 
fellow ! ’ his friends said. 

Yes ; but generous with other people’s money. 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


271 


He was spending upon himself and his associates 
what really belonged, not to him at all, but to his 
landlady and washerwoman. What sort of gener- 
osity is that ? But it is the sort which you will find 
your good fellow is most commonly noted for. 

When Rob went to a new place he was always 
liked at first, he was so intelligent, affable, and 
charming. He formed good resolutions, I suppose, 
which kept him steady for a while. But gradually 
the old habits would steal back, and the new broom 
didn’t sweep quite so clean. A man can’t lead a life 
of dissipation and be a good business man at the same 
time. He went from place to place, from boarding- 
house to boarding-house, his debts following him, like 
an ever-increasing pack of wolves at his heels. 

“ Suddenly he disappeared. I next heard from 
him in California, where, by a lucky chance, he made 
a fortune in a few months. But no man of his habits 
can keep a fortune. It was spent almost as quickly 
as it was got. 

^^A friend of mine afterwards saw him, ragged 
and penniless, in the streets of San Francisco, look- 
ing in vain for something to do. I have never heard 
of him since. 

Now don’t think this an extreme case. It is a 
very common case. I have known so many young 
men to begin life with just such brilliant prospects, 
and fail soon or late in much the way Rob did, from 
a similar cause. A little spending-money was at the 
bottom of it.’^ 


272 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


“ You spoke of the theatre/^ said Luther, seriously 
impressed by this sad picture. Would you have a 
young man never go to see a play ? 

I don’t say that,” Adam Starworthy replied. “ A 
play is — or may be — like many other things, inno- 
cent and good in itself. If it ^ holds the mirror up to 
Nature,’ which Shakspeare says is the real purpose 
of playing ; if it is true to human life, and is written 
with wit and wisdom, it may be well worth seeing, 
it may be well worth studying. 

“ But we all know what weak, trashy, immoral 
stuff often holds possession of the stage, and what 
dangerous associations surround such places of amuse- 
ment. Good plays and good acting may instruct; 
but sensational plays, immodest acting, and the very 
atmosphere which pervades the theatre where they 
are popular, dissipate the mind, and sap the moral 
character of the youth who becomes fascinated by 
them. 

“ Shakspeare — you see I am not bigoted, for I 
venerate and study Shakspeare, whose works are 
full of marvellous beauty and wisdom — Shakspeare 
says that men catch manners, as they do diseases, 
one of another. 

‘^We do more than this. We insensibly absorb 
the atmosphere of the persons with whom we asso- 
ciate. And if you frequent the theatre where im- 
moral plays and immodest acting are sure to attract 
a fitting class of spectators, and if you find compan- 
ionship among these spectators, as you will be very 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


273 


likely to, your tone of character will certainly be 
lowered before you are aware. 

Then all I have said of the pernicious habit of 
self-indulgence applies here. How much better to 
attend reading-rooms, lecture-rooms, concert-rooms, 
and spend your spare time and money there. Spend 
it in the cultivation of your mind and tastes, for self- 
improvement is not self-indulgence, but its very 
opposite.^^ 


THIRD EVENING. 

I am not sorry that you are a little bashful,’’ Mr. 
Starworthy said to the young clerk the next time 
they met in the comfortable library. “ You were a 
little ashamed of your blushes, the other night, when 
I introduced you to my nieces ; but you needn’t have 
been. No sensible person will think less of you on 
account of them. 

You will soon get over any foolish diffidence you 
may have ; but the gentleness of heart, the respect 
for others, the sensitiveness to the presence of beau- 
tiful and virtuous young women, — these are traits 
which such diffidence generally indicates, and which 
I hope you will never get over. 

“ It is the self-confident youth, without deference 
and without imagination, who is never troubled with 
diffidenc??. 

“ * iPools will rush in where angels fear to tread.* 

18 


274 


BOYS IM THE CITY. 


^‘Keep that virgin bloom of your spirit always, 
my dear boy,’^ the old man went on. Avoid those 
associations which tend to wear it off, leaving the 
young man hard, headstrong, brazen. Avoid, above 
all things, that female society in which modest blushes 
are unknown. It has its snares spread for every 
70uth. It finds him out even in the store where he 
waits upon customers. It meets him in the gas- 
lighted street. It flatters him to his destruction, if 
be is one to be so flattered. 

Once abandoned to such influences, a young man 
loses soon all the finer qualities of his nature, and 
that beautiful homage for pure womanhood which he 
owes to his mother and to his future wife. Many a 
young man sacrifices to this painted temptation both 
his spiritual and worldly prosperity. 

“ Keep your purity of soul, Luther, and this temp- 
tation of grosser natures will be no temptation to 
you. Engrave this golden sentence on your heart : 

“ ‘ Who is the happy husband ? He 
Who, scanning his unwedded life, 

Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free, 

* Tw as faithful to his future wife.'" 

The old man copied the words from a page of Pat- 
more's poems, and gave them to Luther, saying : 

“ They contain all I would say to you on this sub- 
ject. And now for other associates. 

Don't have much to do with the so-called ‘ good 
fellows,' who smoke, and take a glass, and play cards 
and billiards, and spend in amusement — even in 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


275 


innocent amusement — the time which should be 
given to self-improvement. 

‘‘ Not that I object to pleasant social games. It is 
what they frequently lead to, and the associations 
too often surrounding them, which are dangerous. 
Billiards, for example, is, in itself, an unobjectionable 
game, and a fine exercise for mind and muscle, eye 
and nerve. Enjoyed at the right time, and in the 
right place, it is well enough. But when you enter 
a common billiard-saloon, you enter an atmosphere 
of smoking, drinking, betting, and maybe of worse 
things. You find the companionship you cannot 
afford to keep. 

For remember that you have a business to learn, 
a future which prudence bids you prepare for now. 
You have no time, no powers to fritter away. Keep 
up useful studies at home, and do not slight your 
work. 

“ That is one of the great temptations which you 
will be liable to fall into in the store. Young men 
who begin on a small salary are apt to think, ‘ I won’t 
give any more labor for such low wages than I am 
obliged to ; by-and-by, when I get a large salary, it 
will be time enough to commence in earnest.’ ” 

“ I find,” said Luther, that young fellows are ap' 
to reason in that way. They have no heart, they 
say, to work for one or two dollars a week when they 
think they are earning five.” 

Fatal mistake ! ” exclaimed the veteran merchant 
sometimes think that the English system, by 


276 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


which a boy entering a bank or store, instead of re* 
ceiving wages, has to pay for the privilege of serving 
and learning the business, is even better than our 
own. For there he knows what he is paying for, 
and has a motive to apply himself, if only to get 
back his money’s worth. To learn the business, and 
acquire business connections, — that is what he pays 
for. Our clerk apprentices forget that it is for pre- 
cisely the same thing that they give, not time and 
money, as the English apprentice does, but time for 
a very small return of money.” 

“ I see that as I did not before,” said Luther. 

We are really working, not only for our employers, 
but for ourselves.” 

“ And you are working for yourselves in more 
ways than one. You are establishing your charac- 
ters. You are forming habits of faithfulness, or of 
unfaithfulness, which will follow you through life. 

“ I am not speaking particularly of store-boys now : 
but this, like nearly all I have been saying to you, 
applies equally to other young men. The great 
temptation which I see the youth of our country 
falling into everywhere is that of slighting their 
tasks. 

“ How few do we find, in any trade or occupation, 
who, at the age of twenty-one, really know their 
business ? It is this early shirking of duties which 
fills the world with botchers and pretenders. 

A thorough master of a good trade can always 
find employment, — except, perhaps, in times of uni- 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


277 


versal business depression, — and his work satisfies 
his customers. But the poor workman exasperates 
you by undertaking to do what he has never thor- 
oughly learned to do ; he is constantly changing 
places, getting out of employment, and suffering 
from chronic ^ hard times.^ 

So I say, whatever your work, whatever your 
wages, be faithful. Even in the matter of money, 
it pays well in the long run. But in the matter of 
habit and character, it pays instantly, — a far more 
precious reward 1 

** Faithfulness includes honesty. The young man 
who loves his duty can never be tempted to wrong 
another out of a penny. He will not steal the time 
which belongs to his employer ; and he will not steal 
his employer’s money. 

The unfaithful clerk reasons : ^ I am working for 
small wages ; the firm are making large profits ; a 
small share belongs to me, and I will get it if I can.^ 
“ He begins with some little thing ; if not money, 
then any trifle he can lay his hands on without fear 
of detection. He tries to reconcile the theft to his 
conscience, — if he has a conscience, — and thus 
makes larger thefts easier in the future. 

If he is an ingenious fellow he probably, before 
long, devises some regular system of fraud, by which 
a little stream of the great current of capital can be 
diverted into his own private channels. He takes 
every precaution against exposure ; he grows bold, 
from experience ; but in the end, as sure as there is 


278 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


a God above us, and divine laws that enclose us like 
the sky, in the end it is ruin, — outward ruin and 
disgrace, in the majority of cases, and inward, secret 
ruin in all. 

But I believe that vanity is oftener than avarice 
the cause of the young man^s going wrong, — the 
desire to appear as generous as his companions, to 
make a show, and to * please the ladies.^ I once 
knew a young man, who was very steady at his 
boarding-house and in his business, until temptation 
came to him over the counter.’^ 

“ How could that be ? ” Luther asked with some 
surprise. 

Very naturally. A young fellow has the misfor- 
tune to be handsome, and to know that he is. Chatty 
young girls come in to trade, or perhaps to spend a 
gossiping hour or two among the clerks. There are 
plenty of such girls. They pretend to trade, of 
course. 

They smile sweet encouragement on the hand- 
some clerk, and soon make his acquaintance. He be- 
gins to spruce up when he sees them come into the 
store, smooths down his shirt-bosom, gives a slight 
quirk to his ear-locks, and puts on his finest airs. 

This was the way it began with young Lorton. 
Soon the girls invited him to call and see them. 
They were respectable girls, in the eyes of society, 
only a trifle too gay to be very profitable acquaint- 
ances for anybody. Then of course Lorton must 
dress a little better. He must show his apprecia- 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


279 


tion of the young ladies’ attentions by inviting them 
to places of amusement. So he entered upon a life 
of social gayety, quite different from that of Rob, 
whom I told you about the other night, but tending 
to the same disastrous end. 

Lorton also found himself living beyond his 
means. To keep out of debt he at first borrowed a 
little, secretly, from the money-drawer, meaning to 
return it at some convenient time. 

He had no thought of stealing ; but somehow he 
always found it more convenient to borrow money 
than to repay it ; and a pretty regular system was 
established of transferring a little every week from 
the drawer to his own pocket. Finally he became 
engaged to one of the young ladies, and the wedding- 
day was set. Everything seemed to prosper with 
him, until, on the very morning when he was to lead 
his bride to the altar, he was summoned to a private 
interview with his employers, charged with the rob- 
bery of the till, and forced to confess. 

On the very day when he was to have been mar- 
ried, he was locked up in jail, the indignant father- 
in-law refusing even to offer bail for him. The case 
was never prosecuted, and Lorton was finally re- 
leased without a trial ; but his reputation and pros- 
pects were ruined. The lady who had been, in one 
sense, the innocent cause of his disgrace, proudly 
refused to see him again, and he soon disappeared. 
I never knew what became of him.” 


280 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


FOURTH EVENING. 

Luther Emmons had another appointment with old 
Adam Starworthy, and when they were both seated 
before the bright coal fire, the veteran merchant 
said : 

In our previous talks I have dwelt mostly upon 
the dangers of a city life which young men and boys 
should avoid. Now it is time to say something more 
of the things they should cultivate, of the habits and 
principles which lead to success in life. 

In the first place — fairness in dealing.” 

But here Luther interrupted him. 

I’m glad you are coming to that, for I have been 
troubled by some talk among the young fellows at 
our boarding-house, who think that a man cannot 
succeed in business if he is strictly honest. They 
say merchants expect their clerks to be a little dis- 
honest with customers. One told a story of a clerk 
who was discharged for showing a defect in a piece 
of cloth to a purchaser, and so losing the sale of it.” 

^^I’ve no doubt but there are employers capable 
of doing so foolish a thing,” Mr. Starworthy replied. 

But if a merchant teaches his clerks to be dishonest 
with customers, how can he expect them to be hon- 
est with him ? If you get a man’s money by misrep- 
resenting or concealing the quality of goods you sell 
him, you are as much committing a robbery as when 
you turn about and transfer from your employer’s 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


2S\ 


drawer a portion of his ill-gotten gains to your own 
pocket. 

Can^t succeed in business with honesty ? Then 
let success go ; give up business ; do anything else ; 
dig, saw wood, drive a horse-car — and keep your 
integrity of soul. 

But, my dear boy, donT believe a word of such 
nonsense. For I, who know, tell you that fairness 
in dealing is the first element of true success. 

If you expect to have but one chance at a cus- 
tomer, it may, perhaps, — as far as an immediate re- 
turn of dollars and cents is concerned, — pay to cheat 
him. But you are taking the surest way to prevent 
his ever entering your store again ; and you are send- 
ing out a warning far and wide to all his acquaint- 
ances, that if they deal with you, they must look out 
for a sharper. 

Why, my boy, as a mere matter of policy, — 
which is certainly a low motive, — the first thing 1 
taught my clerks was always to point out to buyers 
any defect in the goods they were selling them, and 
never to urge one to purchase. And in the long 
run — I may even say in the short run — I found it 
paid. 

“ Once convince a man of your fairness, — which 
quality, I am sorry to say, is none too common in 
trade, — and you secure not only his custom, but 
draw in also that of his friends and of their friends. 
They may be tempted now and then to go else- 
where, and make what seems to be a better bargain 


282 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


than you can afford, but which most likely turns out 
to be a bad bargain ; but they are sure to come back 
to you after every such mistake. 

The next thing is courtesy, — perfect courtesy 
shown to every customer. I don’t mean merely 
outside politeness, hollow at heart ; but gentle man- 
ners, inspired by genuine good-will and kind inten- 
tion. 

I am tempted,” the old man added, with a smile, 
“ to tell you a little story of my own first experi- 
ence in carrying these two principles into practice.” 

I should be delighted to hear it I ” said Luther; 
and Mr. Starworthy resumed. 

I was then a boy about your own age, — not quite 
seventeen, I believe. I stood behind the counter in 
a large retail store, where, I regret to say, those prin- 
ciples were not acted up to very strictly. 

The employers sometimes lost their temper with 
customers, and of course the clerks did the same. 
And the general opinion seemed to prevail that to 
sell a piece of inferior goods for a superior price 
showed praiseworthy smartness in the salesman. It 
was certainly something that pleased our employers. 

Now we all like to please our employers ; and I 
ought to have spoken of this as one of the dangers 
of the store, — a temptation to gain favor by making 
smart sales of the kind I have mentioned. 

I was troubled a good deal by this thing. I stud- 
ied the subject a good deal, and, I am not ashamed 
to say, prayed over it, and at last reached a conclm 
sion. 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 2V- 

“ ^ I will be perfectly fair and perfectly polite at all 
times, and to all customers. If I cannot by these 
means please my employers, and get on in my busi- 
ness, then I’ll quit it, and turn to something else.’ It 
was with this good resolution buttoned under my 
jacket, that, bright and early one Monday morning, I 
took my place in the store. 

There was little doing, and finally, one of the last 
persons any of us ever wished to see, came in. 

There is in every place, large or small, I presume, 
a class of purchasers who give salesmen a vast deal 
of trouble. They are now called pickers ; but when 
I was a boy in Boston the cant term for them was 
Beelzebuhs. Rather a profane, and certainly an inap- 
propriate name, to be applied to a class of females ; 
but the boys wanted as strong a word as they could 
get, to express their detestation of them, I suppose. 

“ The Beelzebubs were women whose great de- 
light was in shopping ; going from store to store, 
making clerks overhaul and hand down goods, find- 
ing fault, beating down prices, and occasionally pur- 
chasing, after having gone the rounds of the city. 

They did shopping for themselves and all their 
friends, among whom they were noted for their happy 
faculty of making great bargains. They really knew 
a good deal about goods, and bought a good many in 
the course of the year ,* but every clerk knew them 
by sight, and whispered his disgust whenever one of 
them entered a store, ^ There’s a Beelzebub ! ’ 

Well, that morning one of the most persistent of 


284 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


those women — one, in fact, who had earned the 
memorable title of the Queen of the Beelzehubs — 
came scowling into the store. She was accustomed 
to rude treatment from clerks, and went prepared 
for it. 

Suddenly our head clerk had business at the 
desk. The second salesman found it necessary to 
arrange some boxes on one of the upper shelves. 
The third turned his back to her, and grinned right 
and left. I alone stepped forward, with a polite bow, 
and, ‘ What can I show you, madam ? ’ 

She looked at me with agreeable surprise. The 
scowl vanished. She was not used to such treat 
ment. 

“ ^ I wish to look at your black bombazines.’ 

“ I politely showed her the best we had, and said, 
^ We have poorer qualities, but I know that you al- 
ways look for first-class goods, and are an excellent 
judge of them ; ’ which was in fact the case. 

“ She examined the piece carefully, picked it, 
scowled at it, and asked the price. 

‘ To you, madam, I shall say one dollar and a 
quarter a yard.’ 

« • Why to me?^ she said, sharply. 

^ Because,’ I replied, ^ I know that you are in a 
way of purchasing many goods, and we can afibrd to 
favor such customers. You will find that the asking 
price for that bombazine is a dollar and seventy-five 
and two dollars everywhere.’ 

She then began to cheapen it, and finally offered 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 


285 


a dollar and twenty cents. The other clerks, mean- 
time, looked on, ready to burst with laughter, and 
waiting to see what would come of all this extraor- 
dinary politeness shown to a Beelzebub. 

‘ Madam,^ I said, ‘ knowing that you are an expe- 
rienced purchaser, and wishing to save you trouble, 
I Iiave shown you the best we have, and named the 
very lowest price at which it can be sold.’ 

Then she wanted to look at other qualities. I 
showed them to her, named lower prices, and at the 
same time pointed out all the defects in them which 
I was aware of myself. 

‘ Probably,’ I said, ‘ you know more of these goods 
than I do. If there is anything else about them which 
I haven’t mentioned, I shall be very much obliged to 
you if you will tell me.’ 

That interested her, and she really did give me 
a good deal of useful information about our own 
goods. She then wished to look at black silks. I 
immediately showed her our best, and, as before, 
named the lowest price. Again she tried to beat 
me down. 

“ Madam,’ said I, ‘ in dealing with you, I shall al- 
ways show you our best goods, and name the very 
lowest price at the outset. If you were to take the 
whole piece, I couldn’t sell it for a cent less on a 
yard.’ 

Even after that, she tried to beat me down on 
both silks and bombazines ; but I was as firm as 1 
was truthful and polite ; and she finally went out of 
the store without making a single purchase. 


286 


BOYS IN THE CITY. 


What I expected, followed — a roar of laughter 
from my fellow-clerks at my expense. My cheeks 
tingled ; but I wasn’t shaken in my conviction that 
fairness and courtesy were still the best policy. My 
lady had carefully taken samples of the goods she pre- 
ferred, and in the afternoon she came again. 

“ She passed by the other clerks, and came straight 
to me. I treated her with the same politeness and 
patience while she overhauled the silks and bomba- 
zines again, and again tried to beat down prices. 

At last she said, ‘ You are a very polite and a 
very honest young man. I’ll take two patterns of 
that bombazine, seventeen yards each.’ 

I was electrified, but I kept my gravity. The 
bombazine was measured off and cut. 

‘ Now,’ said she, ^ I want two patterns of this silk.’ 
And before she left the store I sold her one hundred 
and sixty dollars’ worth of goods. The laugh was 
on my side then. 

Better than that, tnis woman became one of our 
best customers, and she always traded with me. The 
great staple of her conversation everywhere, I im- 
agine, was her bargains in goods ; and soon I found 
her acquaintances coming to me to trade. 

I pursued this system of fairness and courtesy, 
and in two years I had the largest connection, as it 
is called, of any person in that store. 

“ A clerk, you know, is valuable to his employers 
according to his connection ; that is, the number of 
special customers who find their interest or pleasure 


TALKS WITH AN OLD MERCHANT. 287 

in trading with him ; who will pass other stores and 
other salesmen, and go to him, wherever he may be. 
So when you finish your apprenticeship, you may be 
worth five hundred or five thousand dollars a year 
to your employers, just as your personal influence is 
weak or strong with purchasers. 

“ For my own part, I have always found fairness 
and courtesy the very best capital in business. Those 
who have tried it and failed to succeed, have failed 
from some other cause, — poor judgment, too much 
credit, or a want of proper enterprise. 

“ As you get along in business, I shall have a great 
deal more to say to you, Luther,” the old man con- 
cluded. Come and see me often ; and when you 
write to your mother, thank her for sending you to 
me, for it is one of my greatest pleasures now to 
make my own experience useful to the young.” 


THE END. 








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The Tide=MiIl Stories 

By J. T. TROWBRIDGE 


Six Volumes. Clotfu lUustmted* Price per volume, SIM 


Phil and His Friends. 

The hero is the son of a man who from drink got into debt, and, after hav- 
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The Little JViast er,u 

This is the story of a schoolmaster, his trials, disappointments, and final 
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” Many a teacher could profit by reading of this plucky little school- 
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his One Fault. 

“As for the hero of this story * His One Fault 'was absent-mindedness. 
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‘Peter Budstone ’ shows forcibly the folly and crime of ‘ hazing.’ It is the 
story of a noble young fellow whose reason is irreparably overthrown by 
the savage treatment he received from some of his associates at college. 
It is a powerful little book, and we wish every schoolboy and college youth 
could read it.” — Philadelphia American. 


tlluAiroJed Catalogue sent free on applicoMoh. 


L.EE 8k SHEP.ARD, Publishers, Boston 


The Silver Medal Stories 

By J. T. TROWBRIDGE 


Six Votfumes. CloOu IllustircUeA, Price pet volume^ 


The Silver Medal, AND OTHEB StORIES. 

There were some schoolboys who had turned housebreakers, and among 
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Bound in Honor. 

This story is of a lad, who, though not guilty of any bad action, has been 
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“A boy’s story which will be read with avidity, as it ought to be, it is so 
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ork Mail. 

“ This is a capital story for boys. It teaches honesty, integrity, and friend- 
ship, and how best they can be promoted. It shows the danger of hasty 
judgment and circumstantial evidence ; that right-doing pays, and dishon- 
esty never.” — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

The Jolly Rover. 

“ This book will help to neutralize the ill effects of any poison which chil- 
dren may have swallowed in the way of sham-adventurous stories and wildly 
fictitious tales. ‘ The Jolly Rover ’ runs away from home, and meets life as 
it is, till he is glad enough to seek again his father’s house. Mr. Trowbridge 
has the power of making an instructive story absorbing in Its interest, and 
of covering a moral so that it is easy to take.” — Christian Intelligencer. 

Young Joe, and other Boys. 

“ Young Joe,” who lived at Bass Cove, where he shot wild ducks, took 
some to town for sale, and attracted the attention of a portly gentleman 
fond of shooting. This gentleman went duck shooting with Joe, and their 
adventures were more amusing to the boy than to the amateur sportsman. 

There are thirteen other short stories in the book which will be; sore to 
please the young folks. 


Complete Illustrated Catalogue sent free on applicaikmc 


LEE & SHEPARD. Publishers, Boston 


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